Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin
by Ariesque
Summary: AU: Christmas Day, United States, 1877. How Rogue left Remy.
1. One

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Set in the 1870s, stylized like a western, but only partially takes place in the Wild West, I've taken the whole concept of romance and fueled it through my favorite couples (visit my profile page to read which ones if you haven't already guessed). I did do some research (thank goodness for libraries!), and tried my best to write as they would have talked in the nineteenth century, but the final product could be debated. And please let me know how it went (I'll give you props for making it all the way to the end)...now on to the story!

* * *

Anna Marie died today at exactly twenty minutes after three in the afternoon, and we are sorry for it.

She was hanged for killing Mr. Cody Robbins and her guardian, a man called "Logan." We speculate it is not his real name. Nor her real guardian.

The coroner announced that Mr. Cody Robbins was left for dead behind his family's property. His mother, God bless her, found her boy lifeless in the fields, after Anna Marie came running to tell her what had happened. He was killed a most curious way; was kiss, she admitted. They had known each other their whole lives and he had fancied her his sweetheart, saying he would marry her someday. We did not think his death would come from loving her so.

When they finally caught her, she was snarled so tight in her own dismay, a carpetbag half-packed, "Logan" dead at her feet. An accident, she claimed it. Dog bites are accidents; murder is another matter entirely.

And so she was hanged. And we all thought so highly of her; even when her body swayed at the will of that rope; poor Anna Marie, we said.

But that is the way of the world, these days and in the days of old. Of witch hunts and teetotalers and politics and such.

And of mutants, of course.

* * *

**Part One: Mississippi Line**

**1. The Raging Storm**

**Caldecott, Mississippi: 1873**

_Do I cry, in the night?  
Do I long to hold you tight?  
And do I wake, wanting you?  
Yes I do  
Do I recall, everyday,  
How you took my breath away?  
Do I remember loving you?  
Yes I do..._

Something was wrong.

Anna Marie shifted in bed, her long auburn locks falling unto her pillow. The girl stared blankly at the ceiling above her bed, noticeably weathered in disrepair.

Must remind Logan, she told herself, tearing off the covers and leaving her room. The cock hadn't crowed. It was still early morning, and the sun was sleeping. The world was sleeping. Anna Marie was not. She was looking for Logan.

He was sitting up in his bed, face buried in his hands. Anna Marie had never seen him so distraught and she put it upon herself to fix it.

"Logan—" She knelt down in front of him, taking his hands into hers— "what's dah matter?" He stared past her, his thick, muscular figure off-set by the weak moonlight fighting through the clouds floating outside his window. The room was dark except for a small, orange light by Logan's side. He sighed, something he rarely did in front of Anna Marie, and a chord of alarm struck inside the girl.

"Nuthin.'" Anna Marie knew he was lying, gazing quietly into his sad, weary eyes. A storm was raging in those grey pools for a reason. He was thinking about _her_ again.

"Talk tah me, Logan. Fer yer sake." Still he would not speak. Anna Marie joined him on the bed and put her head against his shoulder. This was one of his better nights; sometimes he'd wake up thrashing and yelling or he'd just leave all together and Anna Marie would not hear from him until at least three days later, when he was finally tuckered out from liquor and women and whatever else he did while he was away.

The man growled and shifted uneasily, smelling her worry. The way she said those words made him ache.

And just when Anna Marie thought he'd simply clam up before shoving off, Logan spoke.

"Ro." His voice was barely a whisper; he allowed himself a smile. "Ororo Munroe." The girl had heard that name before; Logan would sometimes call for her in his sleep. "There's this house in Philadelfy along the common highway. It's green with a white fence and shutters and roses growing up the walkway. She tends her plants all the time; I've watched her with those rain clouds…" Logan broke off then, as if catching himself becoming sentimental. A look of reluctance and regret knitted his brow and he shut pan, refusing to continue.

Anna Marie's words were hard to collect. "What e'er happened tah her?" But Logan shook his head hopelessly, that smile sure as gone from his face.

"I don't know," was the answer, but it was not enough for Anna Marie.

Nothing was ever enough between them.

_Yes I do dream of all we had together  
Yes it's true we lost it all forever  
Do I pray anyway?_

_Yes I do…_(1)

* * *

**2. Anna Marie called Rogue**

**near Caldecott, Mississippi: 1877**

It was a sweltering hot day in September as Anna Marie was being read her charges to be put to death in front of a crowd banded with pitchforks and knives and torched straw. "…For the murder of Cody Robbins and Mr. Logan (no last name known) just this morning, bodies found about two hours apart…" She closed her eyes, if only to shut out the misery unfolding all around her. She had watched them haul away Logan's lifeless body and burn the house to the ground with all her mother's good plates and Italian curtains and wrap-around porch, only to discover later that they had saved her for last, and tied the rope taut around her neck. She should not be lynched like this, but Mississippi did not charge murderers based on mutant powers. So the town decided to hang her as justice must be served after all.

It was a lovely Sycamore they had chosen specifically for the occasion. Rogue would never have known who or what was forcing her off its branches, but she remembered the tree, sturdy and strong for the burden it would bear soon enough.

The man behind her asked if she had any last words. Anna Marie wanted to say she never asked to be a mutant, but the crowd taunted her as Mrs. Robbins wailed for her son's life and yelled that Anna Marie would rot in hell for the deeds she had done. "Yah varmint! Dirty, mutant rogue! Not e'en sorry, dah bitch!" She sneered that last word; a condemnation just like all the others she had hurled at her all day. _Just as well_, Anna Marie supposed, _better off dead, a mutant like me._

They draped the black cloth about her head and fixed the noose tighter, taking great care not to touch her. A man's voice rang loud and clear over the hisses and cackles of the crowd. "May God have mercy on your soul." Such a Christian touch; Logan would've been beside himself with their feverish, Baptist ways. Someone shoved her off then, and with nothing but the noose holding her up, she hung there, swaying between the Sycamore's branches.

Even in the end, she gave them what they wanted; always a fighter, good for show, she dangled uselessly above their heads until she went limp altogether. The mob cheered in her defeat. But the rope had been carelessly wound and did not trap the air in her lungs. Because they dared not touch the girl who'd taken the ones she herself loved.

She cut her hands free with the dagger that Logan made her take, so by the time the last person left, she was already sawing the rope above. It was a wonder how she made it in time, how she finally dropped to the ground and promised never to take the good old earth for granted again. Pulling the black cloth off her head, she coughed and sputtered until all she could do was lie there in her own mess, waiting until the breath would come back to her. And when it did, she took to running, as far and as fast as she could until there wasn't another mile left in her worth trekking.

_Four Hours Before_

Logan was a strange man with a stranger past who lived with a girl named Anna Marie in the then tiny town of Caldecott, Mississippi. They weren't related, but no one would believe it since they practically acted like family. In fact, they were all they had left: her folks had packed up and shipped away somewhere far while Logan had left everything behind up North to go find South so he could curl up and die.

Eight years ago, the two bumped into each other, had an argument over tomatoes, and ended up staying together ever since. They were known in Caldecott as the girl and her guardian. The two never had much money, but Anna Marie had a home and that sure was good enough for the both of them.

The friends knew each other very well, so when Anna Marie came running up the path to meet Logan, he had eight years of experience to know something had gone terribly wrong.

Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, but when she finally reached her friend, she did not immediately run into his arms, astonishing him and he could smell the fear on her, quicker than she came into view.

"Marie-" Logan couldn't stand calling her Anna Marie; he figured it long and fussy. "Marie, what's goin' on?" He glanced over her dirty face, streaked with filthy tears. His gaze hardened some. "You're a mess…"

She didn't wait for him to finish. "Ah don't know…Ah don't know…" she wiped at her cheeks and the stench of blood—her blood—wrestled with his nose, and then with his heart. She had tripped somewhere in her rush to return, her hands and knees scuffed but forgotten by the time she got to him. And if she were in pain, she sure didn't show it. "It was an accident…"

Her distressed tone made his breath catch. "Marie…?"

"Ah juss kissed him!" Her voice trilled shrilly, making him cringe. "An' then…" Rogue's eyes flitted to him in horror. "An' then Ah kilt him!"

Logan did nothing but let his jaw hang open. Maybe he was surprised, but all he felt was confused. "How could you do both?"

"Ah don't know, Logan! Ah don't know!" She was slipping into a conniption fit and Logan always hated her hysterics. "Somethin's wrong with me, Logan. Ah juss touch someone an'…an' they die!" She stopped talking and sobbed for a time. "An' there's a mob after me, threatenin' tah lynch me good…"

"Mob!" This Logan understood. He peered down the road and saw the angry crowd just at the end of the road, making its way up their path. "Mutant! Freak! Cherry (2)!" If he didn't know any better, he might have believed them to be yelling at him... Quickly, Logan motioned for the house. There was little time to spare and still so much to do.

"What am Ah gonna do?" Anna Marie wept, not expecting an answer. She sat on the ground, watching as Logan paced the floor, deliberating. He then proceeded to open the closet door and remove his luggage.

"We're leavin'." He threw a lamp into the case, making Anna Marie jump to her feet.

"Where?" she asked as Logan tossed in some bread.

"North. I have friends there..." He paused, vaguely wondering if that were still true. Eight years was a long time to go a-missing…Logan turned to Anna Marie, his expression drawn stern. "If we get separated (which I highly doubt), keep going North—it's the safest place for you. Charles Xavier will help you…can you remember that? Wait for me there."

Anna Marie had never seen him so concerned. Not since the fox got in the hen house and killed all their birds while they slept. She nodded, not exactly sure what answer he wanted to hear. "Y-yes, Logan. Ah'll look for a Charles Xavier up North."

"An' don't tell anybody where you're headin'—got that?" He handed her his dagger, kept faithfully in his boot, although he never had to use it in Caldecott before. "Chase the North and look for Xavier. I'll find you there."

Anna Marie did not have to ask what the weapon was for; she took it without hesitation. "Not a soul," she vowed. And then there came a banging at the door, startling both friends inside. Logan immediately grabbed Anna Marie's bare hand, intending to drag her out the back, completely forgetting about what happened the last time she directly touched someone. The sensation was as if his innards were being sucked clean from his body, and he dropped to the floor, cold as hoarfrost, as soon as Anna Marie was able to pry her hand loose.

The girl fell to screaming over Logan's unconscious body, and she was still screaming when the mob burst into the room. There was no question about it, after one man stooped to check Logan's pulse: kaput.

They pulled her still shrieking after them out of the house.

* * *

**3. The Infamous Philanderer**

**Location Unknown: 1877**

Anna Marie awoke, lying face down in the dust. She glanced around, her eyes squinting at the brightness of the sun. The air was dry and tight; dirt gathered and choked her worse than that California collar she managed to cut free from around her neck.

"Simply horrible," the girl muttered to herself, absently rubbing the rope burns at her throat. Her dress was wrinkled and filled with earth that she shook off the best she could, and when she felt right, Rogue got to her feet. Or at least tried to. She couldn't remember how she got to where she was but it sure didn't look familiar.

How ironic. Even in those days, it was ironic. Ironic nobody woke her up. Ironic nobody found her.

Ironic she wasn't killed.

She slowly got to her feet. Her back ached, but that didn't surprise her. One step. Two step. It wasn't far, but it was progress. She needed to get on, even though she wasn't certain where she was at the moment.

The sun was high, so it must have been about noon when she spotted a lone figure on horseback coming towards her. She almost turned to run if it weren't for the fact that he was singing to himself a song that she herself knew:

_Chere 'tit zozo quoi t'apre fe?  
T'apre sauter, t'apre chanter  
To pas connais n'a p'us Marie  
Marie mouri, Marie mouri_

'Tit z-herbe tout vert, 'tit z-herbe tout moux  
Faut p'us to fais un lit pou nous  
To pas connais n'a p'us Marie  
Marie mouri, Marie mouri

Quand jou vini n'a p'u soleil  
Quand nuit vini n'a pas sommeil  
Quand monde content mo p'us ca ri  
Marie mouri, Marie mouri

Anna Marie thought about her options: killing that stranger or stealing his horse or doing it all as well as she could manage. Well, she'd have to do it all quickly, and maybe lift a few silver dollars off his belt while she was at it.

There was no denying it: the man was a city cowboy; she could tell that much from what clothes he was sporting. His wide Stetson was drawn low over his eyes, Levi's jeans belted with shiny silver, Justin's boots polished and shined. But Anna Marie settled her sights on that flashy Colt .45 at his hip and thought of nothing else until he had rode his horse close to where she stood.

"'Scuse me, miss," he said, trying to get by with a tip of his hat. That was when she caught sight of a star on his chest. A star meant sheriff. Sheriff meant arrest, meaning death if he recognized her as that Rogue Murderer from Caldecott. It was enough to drive the girl to reach for his gun and shove the pointer into his ribcage.

"If yah knew any better, you'd get down and throw me anythin' else yah got." The man apparently did know better for he quietly obeyed, keeping his hands in the air. The city cowboy emptied his pockets filled only with chewing tobacco, snuff, some whiskey, and plenty of playing cards. He was a mighty curious kind of sheriff, Anna Marie had to admit. And as she looked over his collection, the man ventured to ask why a girl like her would want to shoot some stranger like him. The question made her laugh in his face.

"What makes yah think this bullet's for yah?" She put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

But nothing happened. Even death wouldn't give her a chance.

"Man Alive! Who in Sam Hill carries a gun without bullets?" she cried, throwing the worthless weapon to the ground. The man raised his head slightly, quietly decided that this cherry was mad enough to swallow a horn-toad backwards, and was resolved to figure out why.

"_Beb_, y' better have a good explanation f' bein' a scalawag when y've no business here." He smoothed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "B'sides, I used all my bullets _déjà_—dey just wasn't f' y'." He gathered up his belongings as Anna Marie looked on hopelessly, her spirit breaking all over again. The man covertly watched her from the corner of his eye and felt a pang of pity; there was something so graceless and sorry about her that bothered the man enough to face her once more.

"_Sont vous a perdu_?" he asked. She did not understand, and so he translated: "Are y' lost?" Her eyes lit up frantically and betrayed her confusion.

"No…yes…" He shook his head; she sure as hell wasn't helpful. But he wasn't one to give up so easily.

"Y're from 'round these parts?" He had taken notice of her drawl, an accent too distinctly Southern to have earned her a place elsewhere.

"If we're in Mississippi, then sure." She moved a few spaces from him. "Look, Ah didn't mean to drag yah into this, so if yah went on yah way…"

"_Ga Lee_," he hissed in realization making her heart skip a beat. "Y're thet Rogue Mutant Murderer from Mississippi, ain't y'? Y's pitchers are plastered all over…"

"It wasn't mah fault, all raht!" She clenched her fist, all in a pucker. "Ah never asted tah be no mutant!" The man, despite himself, frowned at her.

"An' what's wrong w' bein' a mutant?" He removed his hat and Anna Marie could now see, plain as day, his eyes glowing—_actually glowing_—a curious scarlet tint. She had enough sense to fix her eyes on the ground, embarrassed all to pieces with her blunder.

"Well, don't that juss beat the Dutch," she muttered after a moment. "Ah didn't know yah were…one of them." The man walked around her, those red eyes of his never once leaving the girl's face.

"From de looks of it, y' are too, Miss Rogue Murderer."

"Don't call me that!" she snapped. The man just chuckled at her balderdash. "It was an accident," she added quietly before settling into a deliberate, hasty silence.

The man regarded her for a moment. "_Bien, bien_. _Rogue_ then, all right?" He offered, not unkindly, and though the girl did not especially like that word, it was far safer than telling him her real name.

"Ah respect that fahne," she said simply. He smiled, showing off all the nice parts of his face that, even in her bind, Rogue took to noticing.

"Remy LeBeau, an' don't y' forget it," he introduced himself, holding out his hand to shake. "Louisiana-born, infamous philanderer of de South, an' sakes alive, mutant t' de bone." Anna Marie now called Rogue did not take his outstretched hand. Instead, she pouted and folded her arms across her chest. "Less than friendly, aren't y'?" he joked lightly, witnessing her obvious withdrawal and finding it somewhat charming.

"Where are we, Mister LeBeau?" she asked, ignoring his observation. Red-Eyes grinned, feeling slighted. He pulled out some chewing tobacco and bit into a plug.

"Well, y' sure made a wrong turn somewhere Miss Rogue; usually when someone like y' needs t' hightail outta de States, they go West." He chewed his tobacco thoughtfully. "But y' plumb missed de Mississippi River altogether. All in all, I'd say y's in Alabama by now. Nothin' t' see, but de food's all right. Whenever I'm in Whistle Stop, I lunch on fried green tomatoes (4)…"

"Man alive, how yah talk!" Rogue suddenly interrupted. "Reckon Ah can get on from here on my own. Thank yah fer yah time, Mister LeBeau… maybe when Ah'm in Nawlins, Ah'll ring yah up an' we can get together and go over how stupid Ah was with yah gun an' all… Oh! An' Ah reckon Ah'd appreciate it if yah denied ever seein' the likes of me anywhere…" She started walking away but immediately stopped when there in the distance came the thundering of hooves. A mob of maybe five men were coming their way. It was enough to send the girl running back to Remy LeBeau who was spitting snuff from his mouth.

"Mister LeBeau!" she cried, pointing at the cloud of dust and dirt which was quickly approaching them. He glanced up, wiped his chops, and actually grinned.

"They've found me!" They both said at once. The two immediately looked at each other and cried, "They've found _you_?"

Red-Eyes tugged at the bandanna around his neck. "I wasn't plannin' t' tell y', but I'm not exactly de most popular bastard in Alabama."

The world seemed to echo with the beat of her heart and Rogue bit her lower lip. "W-What have yah done?"

The man shrugged. "Among other things…I kinda borrowed a horse…an' never returned it."

"Yah _stole_ a hoss?" The girl was beside herself in shock. "Isn't dat illegal _everywhere?_!"

"Shucks, Miss Rogue," the thief sighed, feigning remorse, "when y' put it _thet_ way…"

The mob was now a few feet from them and fast approaching. Rogue started sweating in her boots while Remy, unaffected and casual as a summer day, actually began whistling and petting the stolen horse. Less than five minutes later, the front man of the mob jumped from his steed and defiantly pointed a finger at Red-Eyes.

"You, Mister, are under arrest for stealing a man's horse, potentially stranding another by killing his calico, and knocking over an officer in duty."

Remy snorted. "Really? I thought I killed dat last one…" He trailed off, and Rogue waited to see how he could possibly get out of this bind. "Well, gentlemen, I reckon y've accused de right man. But I intend to wake snakes 'fore y' haul my ass in." With that, he pulled out two cards from his front pocket and threw them at the mob with sickening accuracy. It seemed whatever he touched, he charged, and whenever he threw, something exploded. The first one knocked Rogue to the ground and there she was kept for a time.

Remy LeBeau was holding the brutes off pretty well, and he would have continued to raise Jesse if it weren't for someone calling out: "You better quit this ruckus, mutant." Red-Eyes turned and saw that the front man had his arm around Rogue's neck while holding a gun to her temple. There was no denying that _this_ weapon was fully loaded. "The cherry gets it if you don't come with us."

The thief hadn't a chance; he dropped his arms in defeat. Suddenly, things weren't looking so good after all.

That was what he thought, before Rogue managed to find her assailant's bare wrists and press her naked fingers into his skin.

Remy LeBeau had never seen anything like it. The man's whole body seemed to compress as the girl sucked away the rest of his life before anyone could bat an eye. In less than a minute, the man sunk to the ground, cold as a wagon tire, nothing left to keep him upright. The scene suddenly turned chaotic as the rest of the mob fled, frightened as children upon witnessing Rogue's mutant powers.

The girl shivered as she watched them leave, her dirty hair tangled and hanging limply in her face. She knew she could not stay here, pretending to be the Anna Marie she had always been before today. Not after murdering three people before the first one could possibly turn cold. And for once she was grateful that Logan was dead so he could never see the day she turned rogue on this town, probably even this country.

The girl glanced at the thief, her face hard and expressionless. "Lahke Ah said, Mister LeBeau, Ah can take it from here." Her body felt almost leaden by the burden she left behind her and she made to leave, not wanting to stay any longer.

And then, out of the blue, he spoke. "Wait." She stopped at the sound of his voice and lingered until he joined her side. "I don't doubt y' know where y' goin'. But from de looks of it, y' ain't goin' anywhere if y' don't have help." He shrugged uncomfortably, as if he had never offered anything to anybody before. "Granted de train station's far from here an' I got me a horse…"

She looked at him incredulously. He explained it was just an offer—take it or leave it—either way, he wouldn't think any less of her.

Rogue put her bangs behind her ear and blinked, trying to understand what he was saying. "Yah saw what happened…yah know what Ah can do."

He stopped her by taking ahold of her shoulder. Alarmed at his touch, she immediately fell away from him; the last thing she needed was another stranger dead at her feet. But she couldn't stop staring at him, how his eyes burned a brilliant scarlet in the brightness while the sun scorched her face as she looked on, somehow captivated by his daring.

"Rogue, trust me. Out here, dese days…it's all y' can have in a body, an' b'sides, y' cain't ask much more from a thief like me." She knew it was all wrong, trusting a stranger—a bandit and outlaw—she barely met, who had seen for himself all her bad parts and knew she was a threat to society, to herself, to him.

But then she knew there was nothing left for her here_. Chase the North and find Xavier_, Logan had advised. _I'll find you there._ She thought of him then, bitterly; her guardian, her friend, dead on her account. She hadn't a clue where to start, how to get up there at all. _I'll find you there, _he had promised. And looking at Red-Eyes now, she saw the promise materialize; that someone had actually _offered_ to help and she only needed to trust him to get her out of this tired, miserable town. They were on the same side of the Law, she realized then. The mutant side, that is.

They wasted no time getting on that dusty, Alabama road on such a damned sweltering day in September.

_It's crazy, I know, to count on this road to give me what I need._

_But with every state line, somehow I find, another part of me..._

_I'm gonna pack my bags and never look back_

_Run a parallel line with the railroad tracks and make my getaway_

_I'll put the pedal to the metal as the sun goes down_

_Leave everybody sleeping in this sleepy town, and by the break of day_

_I'll be a runaway…(5)

* * *

_

End Notes:

(1) Rascal Flatts. _Yes I Do_. Not really as sad as I would want it but the lyrics are pretty accurate—you'll see a lot from this band—I used them as inspiration to get that Midwest mood. They aren't half-bad, if you're not keen on country, like I once was.

(2) Vulgar term for a young woman.

(3) Linda Ronstadt's Marie Mouri; translation:

Dear little bird, what are you doing  
You are jumping, you are singing  
Didn't you know Marie is no longer here  
Marie is dead, Marie is dead

Little green grass, little soft grass  
You no longer need to make a bed for us  
Didn't you know Marie is no longer here  
Marie is dead, Marie is dead

When the day comes the sun is no longer there  
When night comes there is no sleep for me  
When people are happy I can no longer laugh  
Marie is dead, Marie is dead

(4) Reference to Fannie Flagg's novel.

(5) Love and Theft. _Runaway._

So what do you think? Send me some love…or hate…and review!


	2. Two

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: And so with 3 reviews, I continue. Part Two is a Jonda full-on. If you can't stand them (so sad), maybe I can convert you. Or please return afterwards—I'll wait for you, cross my heart hope to die. As for the chapter titles, I'd heed the bold titles and not the ones you could scroll down on up at the corner.I split this story into parts with little sections, and I don't know how to figure it properly with the scrolling...ack, my head hurts just thinking about it all...just read the story...

* * *

**Part Two: Fire to Melt the Frost**

**1. The Day He Disappeared**

**Voight's Ranch, South Dakota: 1873**

_I waited for you today  
But You didn't show  
No no no  
I needed You today  
So where did You go?_

_You told me to call  
Said you'd be there  
And though I haven't seen You  
Are You still there_? (1)

Wanda cowered in the corner of the room, heart full, her sewing abandoned for she would not concentrate. She couldn't stop shaking; the undeniable feeling of loneliness quietly crept back into her heart, mocking her.

And what was is it that Voight said to her to make her feel this way? He said it so calmly, that man known for his hospitality, the ranch owner who quickly took St. John and her into his ranch without so much of a question. Poor Voight, he knew how she felt somehow.

_We couldn't find him_. Stallion had come back with an empty saddle_… He must've been taken_. They sent a search party for him…_We followed tracks as far as the rails, Mrs. Allerdyce, but we lost his trail thereafter._ And what was that last thing he mentioned that just about broke her in two?

_I know how much you loved him._ She paused; stopped remembering. How much _did_ she love him? Sure they made love a few times, and she couldn't stand that he was aiming to leave unless she really wanted him to stay, but Wanda was resolved to shake off those feelings as mere infatuation._ I didn't love him. _The words held no meaning though—they were like water running through the cracks of her hands. She could still feel his lingering warmth on her lips, strong arms to hold her against him, a comfortable shoulder to fall asleep on… No matter how hard she wanted to forget, she knew she couldn't lie to herself forever.

_We couldn't find him._ Dammit, Voight, you weren't trying very hard.

Wasn't it just yesterday that St. John kissed her good night, those fingers dallying on her cheek as he told her of what he had planned for just the two of them?

_California ain't so bad. When I get this month's pay, we'll hightail out tah find gold, love._ He wanted her to come with him, and she told him she would. How that madman loved her so, she could only imagine. No one ever loved her like he did. No one will ever again love her like he did.

And for the first time in her entire life, Wanda bent her head down and began to cry.

* * *

**2. The Nonstop Train to New York**

**Birmingham, Alabama: 1877**

The sun was beginning its climb across the southern sky as Remy LeBeau cautiously blew out smoke rings shaped like perfect round circles only to have them scattered above by turbulent winds. He could not sleep—it was too hot to sleep. The noise from the nearby stream was not the least comforting either. His companion, that scrawny mutie girl he called Rogue, on the other hand, fell asleep as soon as she could get comfortable.

She was a wonder, that kid called Rogue. The only question he pondered was what to do with such a girl. He knew the terror she caused in Mississippi—they wasted no time sharing her face with the neighboring states. Hadn't she told him she was lynched by the very neighbors she grew up with?

And yet she survived. They had tried to kill her and she had escaped death's notorious clutches without so much of a mark on her. He didn't come across just any mutie: he had discovered a miracle.

But Remy LeBeau was a particular man and this girl just wasn't for him. She was as pathetic as a lame horse with her ratty green dress and soiled petticoat. And what a face! Could she not at least comb her hair? Nothing of hers was of his interest except that dagger he found in her left boot—that made him stop breathing long enough to read the name on the handle: Logan.

It wasn't a common name, but he had to make sure. Remy moved to put the dagger back, he really did, but as he reached over, her hand clamped down on his wrist as eyes of menacing green flashed through him like fire.

"What are yah doin'?" She said this mechanically as she tried to see his face in the dark. Remy paused before answering.

"I was only lookin'…" The grip on his wrist did not lessen any.

She asked the question again. "What are yah doin'?"

Remy glanced at the dagger. "It says 'Logan.'" He didn't mean to utter those words, but the fire in her eyes kept him from lying to her face.

"Yah knew him?" Her question surprised Remy. He expected something much harsher but appreciated the innocent inquiry. He wasn't ready for a confrontation, especially from someone who could kill you with one touch.

"Supposed I did." He flicked ashes off his cigarette. "How'd y' know him?"

Rogue did not answer right away. She rolled to her side, back towards him. "He was mah friend fer eight years." She let out a slow and terrible sigh as if her soul was being ripped from her lips. "An' now he's dead." She couldn't have been any blunter.

The miracle then fell back to sleep and Remy went back to blowing out smoke rings, returning once again to his own jumbled thoughts.

---

She awoke again, this time for real. Remy was not across from her this time; he was replaced by a light blue dress donning sleeves and a high neckline with matching bonnet. Leaning forward, she felt the fabric and couldn't figure how calico could manage to be so stiff.

"It ain't much but it'll do." Remy LeBeau was standing a few ways off, sporting a tattered trench coat which, Rogue noted, had far too many pockets.

She did not try to be appreciative. "It's ugly."

"No," Remy said, pointing at her own dress. "Dat's ugly." He came around and fixed his hat squarely on his head. "Besides, y' needs a get up. Y' jest try an' walk into dat station w' de rags y' wear, an' see if dey don't recognize y'." For a moment, she lingered. But he didn't have to tell her twice: she got to her feet and made tracks down into the stream.

Dodgers were waiting her return (2), but Remy wasn't. She sat down before the now smoldering fire and began to eat without the slightest thought about him, slowly, methodically. Her hunger flared and she finished the stale bread with a craving for more, but more would not come, so she sat back and quietly watched the clouds pass by.

And then, he came back. She heard the grass rustle with each step he took, smelled the tobacco before he could even come into view. He was whistling Dixie and the tune fell sweetly upon her ears. Somehow, some way, it reminded her of Logan, and she was surprised when the tears came. But they were only momentarily; she went down by the stream to meet him, casting away her misery for he had come back.

"The dress fits?" he asked, without concern. He had stopped whistling and was now gazing at her intently.

"It's hot an' awful," she explained. "But fer dah purpose of runnin' away…"

"Bien femme," he muttered, not letting her finish. Rummaging through one of his many pockets, he plucked out a pair of gloves. "Y' should consider dese lucky, beb. I had a helluva time findin' dem." He meant to be irritated, but her smiled made him do a double take. For a moment, but only for a moment, he could've sworn she actually looked pretty.

The gloves were brown, soft to touch; they slid unto her hands with sudden ease. She did not ask where he managed to get these articles of clothing because she did not want to know. Better stay ignorant and learn everything, she figured.

The ride to the station was long and dusty, but they arrived thirty minutes before the next train. It was then when Remy helped her get down and finally declared he would turn her loose.

"Dere's a nonstop train to New York leaving at eight." He was pointing out the different trains quickly; Rogue tried her best to remember what he was saying. "Here's twenty-five cents for the ticket and some dimes for peanuts—you could use some." Remy laid the money in the palm of her hand. Suddenly, he drew out a small bottle from his sleeve. "Take dis an' use it." The label read: _McCoy's Bleach for any Hairstyle._

"Mister LeBeau," Rogue started to object, but Remy would have none of it.

"All I's sayin' is dey're not lookin' fer a blonde beb in baby blue from Caldecott." They looked at each other then; Rogue suddenly became embarrassed while Remy knew this scene all too well.

"Ah reckon as much yah have 'nuff grit tah go after an' help a mutant lahke me." She stuck out her gloved hand shyly. "Ah do owe yah some."

He chuckled and crushed her hand with his. "All in due time, Miss Rogue. Y' take care o' yourself now. Adieu." She felt the sting of his strong touch against her protected skin, and as soon as their hands parted, they went their own separate ways, neither considering the thought to turn back.

* * *

**3. The Scarlet Witch and the Brotherhood Gang**

**Near the New Yorker Railroad Line: 1877**

Four figures on four horses sat stalk-stiff as the wind ruffled their coat linings and hat brims. They were a ways off the railroad tracks, but then again they weren't exactly supposed to be seen. These four figures were known as the Notorious Brotherhood Gang, robbers alongside their leader, the Wicked Scarlet Witch of the Wild West. Wanted in three states for killing at least thirty-six people and forty consecutive robberies spawning from the Dakotas to Alabama, they were said to be unstoppable. But then again, they were all mutants, and that came in handy when leading a life of crime.

A black stallion rode up the side of the rocky cliff just then. The rider, clad in a tattered old scarlet coat and black bandana, pulled the horse's reins, causing it to come to an immediate halt.

This was the Scarlet Witch herself, once Wanda Maximoff, the beautiful brunette whom, once upon a time, nobody gave a damn about. It didn't take long for her to run away after her husband disappeared, didn't take much for her to turn to crime, didn't cost her anything at all when she rounded up a bunch of no-good Boys to help her raise Jesse across the States. Now, she was still awful beautiful, but in a lost way, with dull blue eyes and a hard, frozen heart.

"It's a helluva jump down there, Boys." She spoke in a harsh voice, as if she had been yelling and her throat was damaged. "The next train comes by around 8:15. Let's get 'em fast and once like we've done before." And wouldn't she know.

She was the Scarlet Witch, and now everybody was going to give a damn.

* * *

**4. Iron Horse**

**New Yorker Railroad Line: 1877**

Maybe she should have been more cautious, being around people who could easily call the police on her. But Rogue was not one to call people strangers—even when Logan first came into her life, she never for once considered him a stranger.

But now, the whole world became strange. Strange because it had tossed her out of her home, lynched her with a California collar, and plastered her face all over Wanted posters.

The world was strange primarily because she was a mutant in a society of humans afraidof what they didn't know, what they couldn't control.

To put it simply, they were afraid of her.

The moment she entered her booth, the bonnet had to come off. Rogue closed the door, threw the headpiece unto the floor, and plopped herself into a seat. She had worked up such a nervous appetite, that when there came a knocking on her door, she quickly opened it, fully neglecting her status of staying low.

"Peanuts, please," she said, automatically. But the person standing before her was definitely not a butch. It was a man all right, but not one to call a peddler with his full beard and eyes that reminded her of a clear summer morning's sky. He had on a cowboy hat and nice dress shirt which complemented his broad shoulders and small waist.

Immediately, Rogue realized her mistake and raced through an apology. She moved to reenter her booth, but the man smiled and stopped her with his words.

"Sorry I knocked, miss. I'm jess tryin' tah find my seat." The stranger promptly bought peanuts from a real butch to give to the girl. "Fer dah trouble, miss."

His eyes flashed and Rogue suddenly saw that he knew. It was the way he looked at her, the fact that he gazed at her as if he could see her soul. He had seen her in the papers, had recognized her from the moment their eyes met. Now that he had seen her face there was no mistaking it: this girl was the Rogue Murderer from Caldecott, charged for three counts of murder, wanted dead or alive.

And yet, when Rogue figured this was the end of the line for her and she might as well give up without a fight, the man turned and went on his way, whistling the familiar Dixie tune which, just that morning, had moved her to tears.

She watched him disappear into the next car.

And not once did he look back.

Rogue stood there a moment longer, wondering what that was all about but not exactly willing to find out. So, with nowhere to go as the train lurched forward, she retreated back inside, all the while popping peanuts into her mouth.

---

The bleach burned. She had just finished dyeing the front tendrils surrounding her face, when the door suddenly slid open, and there appeared the infamous philanderer himself sporting his trusty trench coat and handsome smirk when he entered Rogue's booth.

"Need help?" He offered, closing the door behind him. She did not answer at first—so surprised was she to see him that she just stared for a moment with her mouth open, a gaping little hole in her pale, thin face.

"Mister LeBeau?" The name was sweet on her lips. "What are yah doin' here?"

Remy laughed and meant to answer that question, but the train unexpectedly came to a sudden, frightful halt, sending the thief forward into the window ledge. Remy LeBeau hit his head hard on the panel and dropped to the floor with an alarming thud as Rogue watched, horrified beyond belief.

Seconds.

That was all it took for the girl to drop down next to her friend and examine what damage had been done. His head was busted; she witnessed the blood relentlessly surge out from the gaping wound across his forehead with an intensity that was hard to ignore. Quickly, she tore the hem off her dress and applied all the pressure she could muster to the injury. It was then that she heard the distinctive clopping of hooves outside her window. Rising a little in order to see, Rogue spotted five horses standing, waiting in plain view. But where were the riders?

The screams which came from the other cars answered that for her: _they were inside the iron horse_ (3).

She heard gunshots and impulsively pulled Remy's head closer to her. By the muffled sounds of footsteps, she could tell there was a mad dash to escape. Rogue would have gotten the hell out of there too if it weren't for Mister LeBeau lying across her lap, spilling blood all over her gloves and skirts. Everywhere she looked there was blood. How one person could manage to have so much blood in him was beyond her.

Throwing the thoroughly soaked cloth away from her, Rogue grabbed the bonnet she had hated so much and screwed it tightly against Remy's gaping wound. It was then that the door ripped open and two men came in, grabbed the girl's arms, and started dragging her into the aisle. She struggled against them, reached for the unconscious Remy, called his name as if she believed he could hear her. She needed to take off her gloves…if only their hands weren't fastened down on her on her fingers…

Suddenly, they stopped hauling her from the booth. Everything seemed to pause as Rogue tipped her head back and found that she was staring into the barrel of a .44 Russian. Her first thought was to scream, but she had enough sense to bite her lip and take it.

"Don't move," was the only command she was given. Rogue sat still as she let them bind her hands with taut rope.

And then, a strange sight. A man Rogue recognized as the conductor flew across the corridor and broke through a window as if thrown by an invisible force. Two bandits appeared, one carrying a bag for loot, the other clad in an old scarlet coat and black bandana about her nose and chin.

"Your jewelry, gents and dames, so nobody gets hurt." It was a woman's voice, low and raspy. She looked over at the fallen man who was moaning with pain. "Well, nobody _else_ gets hurt." The collection went around slowly. Rogue gazed sadly at the unconcious Remy who hadn't stirred once since his detrimental plunge; worry made her call hoarsely for help from anyone who would care.

The bandit nearest her moved as if to slap her across the face. If he did, she would have had him on the floor in a moment. But the scarlet-coated burglar had heeded Rogue's calls and walked over to inspect the situation. She was the one who stopped him from hurting Rogue, perhaps also saving his life in the process.

Scarlet looked into Rogue's booth, noticing the growing pool of blood around Remy's head. Rogue watched in silent dread as the criminal crouched down next to the thief's motionless body and took a long look at him.

"Don't yah dare touch 'im!" the girl cried, despite the danger she faced. She was kicked in the side as a simple warning to shut pan. Doubling over with soaring pain, Rogue looked on as the robber rose from Remy's side and signaled to one of her goons.

"Take him out." The thug, a large, stout man with a red bandana over half his face, draped Remy's unconscious body over his shoulder and proceeded to carry him away. This drove Rogue mad enough to scream after him.

"Come back w' 'im yah scoundrel! Swamp rat! Ah'll kill yah mahself when Ah get loose!" Her voice rose and fell with the cruel throbbing inside her chest. They were taking away the only friend she had now, and that was just too much for her to handle.

Scarlet gazed over at Rogue, watching her reaction without pleasure, for in those few seconds she had seen herself in this girl calling for something too far to grasp, too close to give up on. That was why she ordered Rogue be taken also, otherwise she would have more than likely shot the girl point-blank for being so dad-blaming loud.

* * *

Notes: 

(1) Barlowgirl. _Never Alone_.

(2) Dodger: small loaf of corn bread

(3) Locomotive

* * *

Responses to my Fabulous Reviewers (I do truly love you guys!): 

Yezabel: Thanks for the review! I will do my best to keep you happy—promise.

Nettlez: I'm really pleased you liked the beginning chapter. It's always the hardest to write, I've found. Hopefully you can stick around for more of what I write.

Kari Lynn Craine: Yes! Another review! Hope you didn't wait too long for this chapter!

I know it's so hard to leave a review (I can relate), but please tell me what you think. And I'll see you all next time for some more Jonda!


	3. Three

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Lots of foul language in this chapter, but we all knew it was coming. I wanted to write more, but it got a little long, so I'll just save it for later.

**

* * *

5. The Fight that Started It All **

**Magneto Ranch, Texas: 1873**

Before love, there is hate.

She sees him by his horse and she knows he is watching her, but she does not know why he does not look away when she glares at him. Wanda gathers her clothes by the bank—she pauses, looks at the stranger with one hand shading her eyes, and comes out of the water. The girl has been swimming in her stark white eyelet dress; he watches her stand on the bank, completely soaked through.

She pulls on her scarlet coat which is as beautiful as it is new. Its red sheen is so brilliant she has to squint to see, but it doesn't make the stranger disappear into thin air like she hoped it would.

Probably, he does not know he is trespassing. He does not realize the dangerous glint in Wanda's eye; all he sees is the eyelet dress clinging wet to her skin. She shakes her head, still feeling his gaze blaze through her like wildfire.

He _is_ fire, she decides. How he carries himself is reckless, passionate, fearless. And the way he stares—it's like he can see into your soul…

But this man can't possibly be any different from the rest of them. Wanda knows about men, and just by living with them she reckons they aren't worth loving one bit.

Besides, fire always manages to burn whether it wants to or not.

She walks with a steady gait towards the stranger, and for the first time in a long time, he drops his gaze to the ground.

"Coward," she murmurs, and then more loudly, "This ain't a place for your hoss to drink. This is private property."

The man actually snorts, surprising Wanda. Maybe this man _is_ different. "Show me proof an' I'll git when yah do."

Wanda stops before him. Her hair is a wet, stringy mess which clings to her neck and cheeks. "You better get the hell out of here, stranger. This ain't your property."

He gives her a cheeky smirk. "Well, _excuse_ me, Princess of the Ranch." Wrong thing to say.

She comes at him like a wild horse, fast and powerful. One fist to the jaw makes the man stagger backwards, obviously very surprised and very much in pain. She packs a wallop against the side of his face before he can retort or retaliate, and this snaps his head back. One more hit to the head and the stranger knows he is asking for an instant concussion.

So he does the unthinkable: he fits his boot between her feet, tripping her step, and before she has time to react, he throws his whole body on top of hers, pinning her underneath his weight. The ground is mud; the earth gives way a few inches in their brawl.

But Wanda does not surrender so easily—she struggles against his body, trying to wiggle out a leg to deal a harmful blow to the groin. "Let go!" she yells, but his grasp is tight around her wrists, and this is something she has not considered. The more she thrashes about, the deeper they sink into the ground. Mud is everywhere; she can feel it seeping into her ears. The man does not let up—those eyes are so near, he can look down into her soul if he wanted.

Suddenly, the girl quits. Her muscles relax, her movements fall slack. The man feels this underneath him and he wants to yell in her face, he wants to tear her to shreds and ask her who she thinks she is, beating on strangers like that. But then he sees her eyes grow wide and just as she turns her head away, a searing pain tears at his back, making him cry out in surprise.

Wanda has seen the whip and because he is lying on top of her, she feels the way it hits his back, ripping away skin and exposing the flesh underneath. She feels how the man convulses with shock, how he scrambles off his place above, how he gasps at the cruel pain a single slash has done.

_Whap! Whap!_ Victor Creed, the foreman, flicks the whip, slender to see and vicious in his command. The stranger has no chance. The next thing he knows, he's being dragged to the shady oaks standing nearby.

It takes Wanda a moment to realize what the foreman's doing, and when she does, she isn't exactly happy. "What the hell, Creed!" She comes running at him, hurtling like a buzzard lost in a tornado. "This is _my_ fight!"

"He was raping you. You couldn't get him off." Creed has finished tying the stunned stranger between the trees and proceeds to rip his shirt open in the back.

"I was about to!" Wanda hisses. The whip soars, crashing into the man's back. "And he _wasn't_ raping me!" As if that matters—she knows once the foreman starts the whip, it can be a while before he stops.

The stranger lets out a strangled cry making Wanda inherently shiver. Although he is no longer on top of her, somehow she still feels his body taking the impact and she does not like it one bit.

"Stranger, you should have picked your victims carefully. Here at Magneto Ranch, we torture before we hang," Creed tells him, raising the weapon for another blow. Finally, Wanda has had enough. She waves a hand; Creed goes flying through the air, crashing into the thorny brush a few ways down. The girl can hear him call that powers aren't allowed, but she can deal with that later.

A few minutes ago Wanda would have finished off the stranger with another flick of her wrist. But the fact that Creed nearly completed the job for her makes the task worthless, almost boring by now. She observes the way the stranger is suspended between the trees, how he tips forward and out, the blood from his raw wounds staining his shirt and collar. For a moment, Wanda actually feels sorry for him, but she is not used to caring for someone other than herself and therefore turns away.

"I can't help you, stranger," is what she says. And as the sun starts to set, Wanda takes the long way back to the ranch house where she is late to cook supper.

* * *

**6. The Ring**

**Brotherhood Hideout, somewhere along the outskirts of Tennessee: 1877**

Rogue was roused awake by peculiar voices a few rooms away. How she managed to fall asleep in the first place was beyond her understanding; where she was she didn't really want to know. But perhaps there is a way out, she wondered. And she couldn't possibly pass up that prospect, so after rolling off the mattress she was on (another curious fact!), the girl cautiously opened the door and walked out of the room.

What Rogue found after making her daring exit was a long corridor with dozens of doors to choose from. She couldn't decide which one to open, so she went down trying each and every knob in that hall. Some were locked, others revealed brick walls, and still others led to rooms completely furnished. It sure was the beatingest thing Rogue had ever seen, but then again, wasn't everything simply screwy outside of Caldecott? No wonder Logan never let her go out—he already knew what to expect. Now it was easy to see why he had been so protective in the first place.

Remy's face suddenly popped into her mind and she automatically wondered where he could be at this very minute. She'd probably find him dead or tortured or something that combined the two together. Rogue wasn't much of an optimist, and therefore dreaded the possibilities as she continued on her way to find freedom.

Voices were coming from the end of the hallway, so Rogue crept up to the door and listened in.

"…Turns out the lake wasn't there to begin with! Ain't that the truth, Lance?"

"Sure is, Scarlet Witch. I swan on it." Laughter. The door was slightly open and Rogue could see the five bandits sitting around a table, with Remy LeBeau on the other side. But they weren't torturing him like Rogue had so vividly imagined them to be. He was laughing and cracking jokes along with them, much to her surprise.

"Maybe we should check on the girl, Wanda," one of the goons croaked.

"Forget that, Todd." The familiar voice made Rogue's heart run cold. "She's here already." Apparently, the girl wasn't hiding as well as she thought she was.

Rogue saw this as permission to enter the room. Money and trinkets were scattered all over the table; the Boys were carefully sorting through the stolen goods. Remy LeBeau sat with his legs out and crossed, head heavily bandaged, a cigarette resting limply between his thin lips. When he saw Rogue, he nearly spit out his smoke in astonishment. "Ga Lee, Wanda, so y' didn't kill her!"

The girl shook her head in response; Rogue noticed she was still in that old scarlet coat, smoking her own cigarette, and looking pretty perturbed. "Why don't you believe me when I tell you the truth? I figured she was important, more or less." Scarlet looked up at the girl and sniffed. "So you're Logan's Kin, are yah? Scrawny little thing…all sticks and bones—you look nothing like him."

Rogue wanted to retort, but she was taken aback with the name Wanda had given her. Logan's Kin? Where did she come up with that one? And how could she possibly know Logan? The man didn't exactly leave the house except when he went to argue with the neighbor over the price of milk these days. But the bandit didn't give Rogue the chance to speak up; she went on talking while counting the bills between her fingers.

"Yeah, I've heard of a Rogue from Caldecott, wanted for three counts of murder and so on. You're worth a good grand on the market, honey, but my ass beats yours by tens of thousands."

"So what if Ah'm wanted for murder?" Rogue suddenly asked, interrupting the Scarlet Witch. "Yah gonna turn me in 'cause they put a money reward on mah head?" To her surprise, the notorious criminal laughed in her face.

"Dammit Remy, if she don't talk like Logan himself!" She then turned to the girl with her cowboy hat drawn low over her eyes. "Darling, why would I turn you in? Why would any of us turn you in? They're looking for us too, you know." She let out a puff of smoke between her lips. "An' besides, if it's true you're Logan's Kin like Remy claims you are, we're talking 'bout something bigger and much better than Logan himself. My father would get a kick out of this one, that's for sure." She curled her lips as she finished her speech.

But Rogue was confused. "Why would Ah be better than Logan?"

"You ask too many questions, Logan's Kin," Wanda replied, annoyance heavy in her voice, but she answered her anyway. "Logan's a sort of legend among us mutants, darling. And since you're his kin, we expect great things from you. Just don't go into the highway robbery business because I'm already in it, and I'll run you out quicker than you can spit and yell 'Howdy,' honey."

"Boy, ain't that the truth," sneered the one called Lance as the others snickered.

Rogue didn't buy it, though. Not right off the bat, at least. She asked, "How can yah be so sure my Logan's really this legend of yours?"

Wanda's scornful smile was enough to make Rogue afraid to go out alone at night. "I thought Remy was fibbing, but I can see now that you have quite the potential. I don't doubt it…anymore, that is." She put out her cigarette and opened her mouth as if to go on, but something on the table made the Scarlet Witch forget the conversation. She reached over and plucked out a piece of jewelry from amidst the loot. Rogue leaned over and figured it to be a wedding band of singed gold. It was a curious ring, something that fascinated Wanda so much that she got up and abruptly left the room.

"Sit down, Rogue," offered one of the goons. She surprisingly obeyed and took Wanda's now empty chair. "Scarlet Witch is our leader. She's a little paranoid is all—you'll hafta excuse her." They introduced themselves as Pietro, Fred, Todd, and Lance. After they went around talking about their adventures trampling over half the country and robbing railroad after railroad, Pietro leaned over and asked Rogue about herself.

Reconsidering his request, he told her, "Actually, Rems told us all about what you two have been through together. We were just wondering what happened to your hair along the way."

* * *

**7. Rematch**

**Magneto's Ranch, Texas: 1873**

When St. John still lived in Australia, his life dream was to become a famous writer someday and be published and remembered as the greatest novelist of all time. When he made it to America, he found starting over meant to pick a profession that actually put food on the table and not just coffee and peanuts, which worked for a few weeks, but was far from substantial if he was planning to live for more than three months.

When St. John Allerdyce went to the West, he became a cowboy because besides being able to write like the wind, he could also lasso, rope, and brand a critter in less than eight minutes. Thanks to Voight's Ranch, John became known as the Fastest Hand in the Dakotas and began making twenty-five dollars a month, girls and booze included.

St. John could still write when he wanted, but staying on Voight's Ranch dealt a detrimental blow to his need for inspiration, so he took an unpaid leave of absence to find what he had lost somewhere between partying with soiled doves and beating his best time of eight minutes in the roping races.

When John met Wanda, it was more of chance than choice because he had been with enough girls to know what he wanted, and as far as he knew, he never cared to sleep with someone who could beat the shit out of him with a couple hits. All he wanted was to water his horse, but instead, got more than he deserved from some hot-tempered cherry swimming in the same river.

So when John saw her making her way up the hill later that night, he wanted to destroy that girl. It would all be in the name of self-defense because she did try to smack him practically to death. And the fact that she was holding a lamplight made it all the more tempting. He would attack as soon as she was near enough. But the girl didn't even make it that close just yet. She stopped a few ways off, put the light down, and crept to his side. Maybe she's planning on finishing me off, he pondered. This would make a great thriller if he could live long enough to write it.

She took out a bounty knife and slashed the ropes, causing him to fall face first into the ground. It didn't hurt much compared to the burning in his back and the stiffness in his arms. He couldn't even move, so he just lay there, face buried in the mud, until she got it in her to roll him over to his side with a nudge of her boot.

"Stranger, you're still on my property," he heard her growl. St. John groaned in exasperation: would she not let it drop already? "I would've kept you strung up if you weren't such an eyesore between these trees."

He murmured something. The girl took a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up in response.

"What the hell did you say?" Those blue eyes stared harshly into his face.

John couldn't stand it anymore. This girl was definitely meaner than half the snakes Down Under, and that was putting it rather politely. "I said: Fuck you!" Then with all the strength left in him, the Aussie launched his whole body into her, knocking the girl to the ground. Sad to say, it was all he ever got to do before she dug her fingers into his back, making him cry out as a tsunami of pain crashed down on him without warning. It was as if she had opened every wound in his back, and boy, did it hurt like hell.

John took a minute to realize she had frozen underneath him. Perhaps she was dazzled with the fact that her hands were sullied in his blood, and taking her fingers out would cost him another pint of or so. Not that she cared an ounce, he thought. Maybe he wouldn't get to write his beloved novels after all and probably die here in some savage's arms. John was disgusted: he never thought finding inspiration would cost him his _life._

Suddenly, her fingers slipped away from his back; John could see the girl's hands painted red in the moonlight. She walked over to the river and washed them, collected water in her skirt, and wrung it over his back. She did this several times until she was satisfied with her work and sat down across from him, tucking her skirt underneath her legs.

He glanced up at her and then released a sigh of defeat. "If yah want to kill me, now's a very good time to do it, Sheila. There's too much torture involved—it would never work out between us." He was joking, but she wasn't laughing. Probably I've provoked her again, John dreaded, and braced himself for the worst.

The girl surprised him by saying, "Coward." He looked up at her in shock: she couldn't possibly be serious. And she went on: "Dimwit, scoundrel, scalawag." And then she was screaming: "BASTARD! NANCY-BOY! YOU DAMN SONUVA…"

"What the hell are yah cussin' me out for, you damn Cherry!" He had managed to sit up and was therefore shouting in her face. "Yah fuckin' slap dah shit out of me, den yer beast-boy comes up an' flogs me half t' death, an' after that yah come back here lookin' fer a fuckin' rematch! Okay: I can take the ass-beating from a girl once, but there ain't any shit left in me to beat out now! An' look at yah: not even a scratch on yah!"

The girl sat back, actually looking pretty satisfied with his angry palaver. "Then what's stopping you from hitting me?" John gazed at her, obviously mystified. Who or what was this person and where exactly did she come from? "I mean, you let a girl beat the crap out of you, stranger. If I were you, I'd be madder than a peeled rattler—"

She didn't even finish her thought; he slammed his head against hers, causing the girl to fall over in surprise. He had to admit it felt good until she came up laughing like she got her head nicked all the time.

John wasn't the least bit happy. "Yah sure know how tah make a guy sore, Sheila." He attempted to crawl away, but the girl got it into her to hold him back.

"Wait, stranger. No man has hit me. Ever. Not like that, even." She was smiling and rubbing her head with one hand. "I'm Wanda Maximoff. I'm sorry for almost killing you today, but you shouldn't have goaded me."

_Princess of the Ranch_: what a joke. "Some princess yah turned out tah be." He gave her a wry glare. "Yah know, girls yer age shouldn't be beating on strangers. Yer supposed tah be docile an' made up o' everythin' nice."

She looked at him with fire in her dark blue eyes which reminded him faintly of sapphire stones. "But you don't like girls like that, do you?"

"I reckon I don't care fer girls who beat me up either." He leaned against the nearest tree and tried to forget the pain surging along his back. It hadn't abandoned him, lest he think otherwise. "An' yah sure know a hell of a lot o' curses."

She smirked. "Grown up w' boys all my life, stranger. Learned a thing or two."

John glanced into her face, lit up by the moon. Her long black hair swayed out behind her as the wind blew quietly in the stillness. He had heard her name somewhere before. It was in the newspaper, and that's when he recognized her. John had a knack for putting a strange face to a familiar name.

"Yer picture's in the Texas Daily, Ms. Maximoff. Gettin' married soon, are we?" Even shadowed by the night, he could see her darken. She was, in fact, engaged to a Mr. Jason Wyngarde. He was not exactly a handsome fellow (he resembled a monkey more than a man, and that was putting it kindly), but he did own a ranch up in Kansas and was said to be very wealthy.

Wanda shrugged. "I don't know him at all. My father's worried I'll just end up becoming an old maid. Marriage was never really something I looked forward to." She wasn't gazing at St. John anymore and that smirk was as sure as gone. "He's got a lot of money, I've heard. It's the only reason my father handed me over in the first place."

"Sounds romantic enough." This recovered the smile she had lost only a minute ago. "Maybe yah can beat him up too if he decides tah take a stab at yah." Wanda laughed at that.

"I'm not worried about my safety, stranger. But I reckon I won't be too happy as a married woman. I mean, he's so old…" She laughed again, but this time, her laugh contained a melancholy note. "I shouldn't be saying things like this to you...I've only just met you and here I am explaining myself like I need to." Wanda looked at him and their gazes locked. "Sorry again, stranger, for clocking you good." She took a chance and touched his bruised face. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

He shrugged. Her apology could use some work, but it would have to do. He then introduced himself and although John knew he could've gotten up and left if he wanted to, he stayed and sat with her for the rest of the night with his arm around her shoulders, figuring he had finally found all the inspiration he ever needed to last him an entire lifetime or two.

* * *

_Reponses to Reviews:_

Yezabel: I hope my take on their first meeting was good enough of a Jonda worthy for you. All I'm saying is that I'm glad Wanda kept him alive so there would _be_ a Jonda (haha).

Nettlez: Believe me: I wouldn't have had Rogue dyeing her hair either if it weren't for her defining white streak. I'll probably go into that more in the next chapter. Yes, and I'm happy Wanda took Rogue because there wouldn't be much of a story about Rogue if she were left behind ;)

Ishandahalf: -blinks- have I really caught the attention of the _great_ ishandahalf?–blinks again just for good measure- Egads, it's true! I guess I wanted to have some fun before college kicks in—I've always wanted to write a Western involving Remy and Rogue. But just so you know: it's going to take a while for Remy to notice Rogue. And she's probably ruined it with her hair…for now, at least.

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**Next Chapter:** Heartbreaks, whiskey, and some answers. I'm just trying to play all my cards right—if you write, you mightknow what I mean. 


	4. Four

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: All right, the line button isn't working but I won't wait for it to get unstuck. And I won't be able to do anymore quick updates since I'm going back to school, but it's not like anyone's holding their breath. So, on with the story, and as always, tell me what you think!

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**8. Skunks and Whiskey**

**Brotherhood Hideout, somewhere along the outskirts of Tennessee: 1877**

A mirror. Rogue needed a mirror to see how much destruction she had bestowed upon her head. She ran down the endless corridor, cursing whoever came up with hair bleach in the first place.

Bursting into a random room, she found it had a vanity and rushed over to observe her reflection. Catastrophe was putting it nicely—her blonde streaks looked stark white in the dim candlelight. Rogue knew exactly who to blame for all of this: Remy LeBeau, that bastard. He would get what was coming to him and all in good time, she thought, pulling on her ruined locks.

And just when it couldn't get any worse, Rogue noticed someone staring at her through the mirror. She turned around to find the Scarlet Witch herself sitting on a bed, looking cross and tired, but most of all amused.

Rogue immediately tried to explain herself. "Ah didn't know dis room was occupied."

With a half-empty bottle of whiskey in her hand, Wanda glanced at her unexpected visitor and scrunched up her nose in blatant disapproval.

"Your hair looks like hell," the Witch slurred. Well, it's not like Rogue could've saved the bottle of bleach to continue dyeing her auburn hair. But she didn't say that. "You look like a damn skunk."

"Skunks aren't brown and white," Rogue tried reasoning.

"Yes they are." She realized Wanda was drunk. As if the Witch's glazed-over look didn't give her away already. Rogue just wanted to make sure is all. "Hey, you kinda look like that skunk Fred sat on one time. I swan, that creature _screamed_ before it went under. Fred's pants smelled so bad, we had to burn them along with that goon sucker." She was laughing, but Rogue wasn't enjoying this mockery at all.

Wanda leaned forward, as if to see her companion better. "Hmm. You know, I haven't spoken to a girl in a coon's age. It's been so long." She patted the bed next to her in drunken excitement. "Perhaps you might get away with looking like a skunk, but you probably should change your clothes, honey, unless you wanna look like you murdered somebody all over your dress." Remy's blood, Rogue was sorry to remember, covered her clothes considerably. At least she left that dratted bonnet behind—Rogue was, at the very least, grateful for that.

Wanda pointed to her closet. "I hardly use dresses anyway. Remy always says he likes me in them, but I tell him 'pshaw' and he shoves off like the good person that he is." She laughed again, as if this was the funniest thing she had ever heard herself say.

Rogue was curious; Remy LeBeau was someone she wanted to know more about. "Yah an' Remy ahre friendly?"

Wanda nodded. "We go back. Back to when John absquatulated (1)." She took a swig of her whiskey and gave Rogue a pout. "He was very consoling but he didn't like feeling sorry for me. He said, 'I'll sleep with you if it makes you feel better' but I'd just laugh in his face because he was always joking like that, and I'd hit him hard for it." She tried to demonstrate on herself and missed her head by a mile.

"So what was Remy like then?" Rogue wanted to know.

"What he's always been: a thief. He's a very persuasive and flirty thief, I'll tell you that much. But I've never set my cap for him (2), if you know what I mean." She paused, as if trying to focus her vision. "Interesting. I've heard you can't touch, so what's a philanderer want with someone he can't get his grubby hands on?" Wanda put the bottle to her lips and swallowed some liquor. Rogue hoped it burned as it went down.

"Maybe he just wants tah _help_."

"Maybe." Even drunk, Wanda wasn't convinced. "But he's much more interested in himself." She noticed the wedding rings on the vanity and her eyes glazed over with tears this time. "Did anyone ever tell you I was married once?"

No, Rogue admitted. Wanda shrugged.

"I'm not surprised. It's a sort of taboo between the Boys and me. We never talk about it because it gets me so upset." She gulped the whiskey again. "Can't you tell?"

It was as obvious as the nose on her face, but Rogue didn't say that. "No, ma'am. Ah cain't."

She gave her an odd grin. "It was a silly fling, but I needed to leave. I needed to get away from my father or else I would've been stuck with a man that can pass as a monkey." Rogue didn't understand a word she was saying, but she decided against asking questions. "We were just friends, John and me. But we fell in love and it was the stupidest thing that could have happened." She said this as if to ridicule herself. "Take it from me: don't ever fall in love. It'll be the death of you." She threw the drink into the fireplace making eager flames engulf the newfound fuel.

"He left you?" Rogue wondered, still trying to put the Witch's story together. She's drunk, Rogue quietly thought to herself. She probably _wishes _she were married so she could have an excuse for her present situation.

"Actually, nobody knows for sure." She gave Rogue a grievous look. "He took Stallion out before dawn one day and just disappeared. The horse came back without John. They said there were tracks as far as the rails, but trust me: I've been riding those rails for quite some time, and nobody I've ever cornered or robbed has heard of a St. John Allerdyce, that's for damn sure." She let out a quiet breath as if to still her heart. "Don't tell the Boys; they think I'm in this business for the money. But to tell the truth, I'm just looking for John." Wanda smiled then, a lost smile. "Once I went up North for Charles Xavier and even he came up cold."

Rogue sat up in astonishment upon hearing the familiar name. "Yah know a Charles Xavier up North?"

"He was no use to me, that's for sure. I even told him so."

"But yah know where he is?"

Wanda looked at the girl, realizing the cause of her sudden curiosity. "He was no help to me, dammit! He couldn't track John…couldn't find him with his powers…" Rogue realized Wanda was too far gone with the liquor to answer her directly. It was hard to swallow that someone as dangerous and powerful as Wanda Maximoff could be reduced to nothing more than a silly girl drunk with the illusions of love.

Rogue then looked on as Wanda, overwhelmed and wasted enough, collapsed on her bed and drowned her sorrow with bitter tears.

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**10. Fear is the Heart of Love (3)**

**Voight's Ranch, South Dakota: 1873 **

It was high noon on Voight's Ranch when St. John Allerdyce stepped into the side door of the ranch house during his afternoon break. Mrs. Voight, a rough but kind woman whose territory was the house, looked up from the stew she was stirring and smiled at the hired hand.

"Afternoon, ma'am," he greeted her, not bothering to take off his cowboy hat as he came into the kitchen.

"I was wonderin' when you'd come and pick up your shirt, Mr. Allerdyce." She waddled over and gave him the garment. "Freshly starched, like you asted." The woman gave him a sly smile and John immediately knew what was on her mind. "Going to ast her today, aren't yah?"

The Aussie tried to suppress his smirk. "Reckon I should."

"Well, go on then! And don't get that shirt dirty 'fore yah reach her, yah hear?" she laughed, waving the wooden spoon at him. John ran a hand over his recently shaved chin, checked his reflection in a nearby watering hole, and sauntered into the stables, all the while pulling on his fresh shirt. He was, of course, trying to find Wanda, which was not exactly the easiest task to do. She was always running away on her horse, escaping her chores, pushing cowboys out of their work so she could do it herself. She had only been on the ranch a month and already she was both admired and hated all over the land.

Wanda Maximoff was not at all like other girls. John knew this from the moment he first set eyes on her. She wanted to run away from her life in Texas; John invited her to go with him to Voight's Ranch. Different, she was. Different because she never pleased anyone except herself, different because she could put you in your place and keep you there. It drove him completely mad because he didn't want her but he wanted her, loved yet hated that girl.

It drove him insane because he couldn't have her. She had a way of reeling him in only to leave him hanging on the line.

But John was willing to take a chance because he had to know if she ever felt the same way about him.

Naturally, there were the subtle hints—how she'd wake him up in the middle of the night just to talk, how she'd offer to take his horse in when he was too tired from work, how she would sometimes make him hide between the fig trees with her after she ditched her chores. Maybe it was just her way of being appreciative, but John knew you just couldn't be too sure with a sheila like Wanda Maximoff.

Voices filled the stable as John looked to see if Wanda's horse was still there. It was, but so were two people. The Aussie immediately recognized Wanda in that God-forsaken coat of hers, talking to a Simon Williams, the butcher who once cowboyed but stopped when he got hurt on the job. Some days, John would see them talking together and he knew their conversations never pertained to meat. John kept behind the stable door, listening in, his heart growing colder with every word he heard.

"What is it you wanted to see me for, Simon? I mean, in broad daylight, and on the hottest day…" Wanda's voice carried through the stillness—she sounded both amused and annoyed at Williams and this alarmed John. He clenched the wooden gate until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry if I took you away from your work…" The Aussie snorted at that. The women were always clucking about how Wanda ran away from chores everyday. She was a sore spot on the ranch; they dubbed her Witch Wanda after she ran away from sweeping the stables with the broom still in her hand. The men talked differently about the girl, mostly because she was a sight to see. She worked as a cowgirl every other day, taking the horses out and roping the cattle. Wanda wasn't half-bad with the men—it was, in fact, her saving grace.

"Hodgepodge, Mr. Williams. I was just penning the critters and you just can't get them to do anything without cussing at 'em." Williams laughed a laugh that came from deep within his throat.

"I used to know what that was like." John rolled his eyes. Williams always liked to talk about his cowboy days, trying to get people to pity him. The ladies fell for it, sure, but Wanda wasn't a regular lady. Give her a rope, and she just kept to herself all day. Wanda was like that. "I was thinking about what you said yesterday about seeing the Southwest, and I was wondering if you wanted to come along with me this winter."

The Aussie was struck dumb. He couldn't believe Williams was asking Wanda to go away with him—to the Southwest even! That was just another way of asking a lady to marry him, was what John was thinking. And he almost sputtered when Wanda told him she would.

Allerdyce turned on his heel and was about to slip away discreetly when Wanda noticed him and quietly excused herself from Williams. She strode towards the Aussie who was scowling to himself, her smile so kind that it just about killed him.

"What are you up to, Australia? Spying on me, are you? Woo-hee, can your shirt be anymore stiff?" She was mocking him, and although it was what she always did, he let it get to him.

"Bloody hell, Wanda, yah shouldn't have come after me. Why don't yah go back tah Williams, Sheila? I bet he wants your attention more than I do. " He turned away from her then, but she called after him.

"You whine like a little girl, Australia. Why are you all horns and rattles anyway? I've only seen you once today and you were a helluva lot nicer then…"

He turned on her, blazing with hurt. "Why did yah tell Williams yah'd go with him?"

She eyed him carefully, trying to figure out what he was getting at. "No reason, other than he was willing to take me."

"He asked yah tah marry him, he did!" John was shouting at her—he couldn't help himself.

Wanda glared at him hard. "He asted me to go with him and not to marry him, you gaboon. But what does it matter to you? Williams is a good man, I doubt he'd do me any harm…"

But John shook his head. "He'd never understand you. Once he finds out yah're a mutie…"

"Fucking hell, John! You think that just because you're a mutant you understand me?" She was furious now, her breathing deep and heavy. "You think you own me…"

"I didn't say that…"

"It's not like I'd ever get another chance at this, John. For once, someone's offered me something I want, not like _some_ people who would rather work themselves to death as if that's all the whole purpose of living …"

"What dah hell is dat supposed tah mean?"

"…Forget it, Allerdyce. You're just making it worse when you keep talking." She was shaking with rage, her blue eyes glistening with passion. "Out of all people, I thought you'd understand the most. You've ruined _everything_." Watching her walk away would've been the death of him, so John turned around and went the opposite direction, half-believing that loving her was the most terrible mistake he had ever made.

---

Staring at the wall for a few hours did not, surprisingly, dull the tired throbbing in his chest. The faithful Old Orchard buzz wasn't kicking in as he had hoped it would, but with a vain trust he downed the rest of the whiskey and poured the next shot. John rolled over to his side and knew very well that it was going to be a long night.

Wanda did not knock, so when he heard the door close behind her, John jumped up, his start reflected in the fireplace. Flames shot up, licking the ceiling, but just like most things around the ranch, it quickly died down to a slight flicker among the logs. He swiftly turned his head to take a good look at the intruder. Her sleeping chemise hung loosely on her shoulders—John observed her tousled black hair as evidence that her night wasn't going so well either. She moseyed over to his side and sat down on his bed.

"I saw your fire and I thought you'd like some company." She reached over and plucked the glass from his hand. Putting it to her lips, she took a long sip and coughed.

"Most people just swallow it fast," he said, taking the cup back and finishing the rest. Wanda watched as he poured yet another glass without so much as a second thought. "And who the bloody hell do yah think yah are comin' intah my room like yah did…" He didn't get the chance to finish his jeer for Wanda had pushed him unto his back, her hands pinning him against his bed with frightening strength.

"I didn't come here for your bickering, Johnnie. Hell, I didn't even come here to hint an apology. I just…I just…" And then she was pounding her fists into him, "Why'd you hafta go and make things all-overish (4)!"

He grabbed her wrists and pulled her closer to him. "I can tear you in two, love. Don't provoke me." He tightened his grip. "_Don't provoke me_," he warned again.

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a hard glare. "I talked to Simon before dinner. He admitted he did want to marry me. And frankly," she paused, as if creating momentum for the impact of her words, "I wanted him to."

She waited for him to say something—anything—but all he did was throw her off and sit up at the edge of his bed. Wanda looked over and saw the long, ghastly scars running across his back, something that gnawed at her with shame.

Finally he spoke, his voice raspy and thin. "Yah know yah can't lie tah me. Yah always said yah didn't want tah be tied down by anyone." He tipped the bottle into his mouth, letting the whiskey run off the sides of his face. And then, sore and streaked and wrathy, John threw the empty bottle at Wanda. She stopped it in midair with a hex and sent it shattering to the floor close to her.

He gave her a dark smirk, eyes glazed with pain and satisfaction. "Damn mutie." He laughed to himself, raking a shaky hand through his shock of orange hair. "So how did I ruin everything, huh? Is it cuz I mentioned yah were a mutant…"

"John…" she whispered, but there was no stopping him now.

"But don't let me keep yah from marrying Williams. Shit, it'll be better when yah go." He turned on her, jealousy bludgeoning his heart into a bloody pulp. "But yah know he won't stay up tah chat or wait for yah in dah rain…or…or…love yah like I do."

He wanted to take it back once he said it. "You don't love me, John." Her voice faltered—she couldn't even convince herself of this. "I mean, you're drunk…"

"'Course I am. Why should yah believe a lousy, wasted bloke like me anyway? Forget I even mentioned it. In the morning, I won't remember a thing…or at least I hope I won't." He lay back on the bed, the scars on his back pricking him uncomfortably.

She leaned over, her hair grazing his shoulder. "You give up too easily, Johnnie. I thought you wouldn't go down without a fight."

He closed his eyes and frowned. "Always have tah beckon me, doncha Sheila?" He finally noticed how close she was and it completely smashed him into pieces. "I know yah want tah brawl, but I'd rather have yah leave now so I don't have tah see yah go."

He tried to look away but he knew she had him where she wanted him and there was no way he could turn around now. Wanda smoothed his hair with her hands. Again, she was so close that all he wanted to do was take her in. He hated her because she made him love her so much—it was that complicated.

"I gave him the mitten, John." Her fingers slid against his cheeks and John simply melted at her touch. "I told him I couldn't marry him because I'm afraid to love. I thought about the fact that he was willing to take me along, but then I remembered you and decided how miserable and pitiful you'd be if I left you here."

He couldn't help but laugh. Ignoring her effort to tease him, John asked what he wanted to reaffirm: "You turned him down?"

She lowered her face so that it rested against his. "Isn't that what I just said?"

"But you are willing to marry?"

"Preferably the right person, yes." He went for a kiss but she jerked her head away from his. Yup, Wanda knew exactly how to drive him mad.

"I can be the right person," he told her, but Wanda shook her head.

"That's what I fear the most," she whispered, truthfully. She remembered there was a curse, a curse on her first love bestowed upon her by a witch. It was said that true love would be the death of him (5). But even as she thought about this, the walls of fear around her heart were coming down, hard and fast. She wanted to stop them from falling, but all she saw was John on the other side, taking hold of her face and kissing her to prove he was the right one for her.

And just like that, Wanda was afraid no more.

They were married two days later.

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**3. The Return**

**Brotherhood Hideout, outskirts of Tennessee: 1877**

Rogue heard the shouting first. Somewhere in that horrible hideout something was happening and it did not sound good at all.

Pulling on Wanda's white dress tied at the waist with black ribbons, the girl exited the room, hoping the yelling would not waken the sleeping Witch. Wanda had quit sobbing a few minutes ago and was sleeping quietly with the whiskey bottle still in her hand. Rogue quickly made her way through the long hallway, following the loud voices which echoed through the stillness.

She saw fire and almost panicked. Her first motion was to slip off her gloves and smooth back her ruined hair, dreading the situation up ahead. Then without warning, the goon called Todd flew through the door, slamming into the next wall, just missing Rogue's head by a few inches. She made to check on him but was quickly distracted by a figure standing just a few feet away from them.

Rogue stood her ground, her naked hands coming up in front of her. "What is your business here?" she asked, her voice surprisingly stern. The figure stepped into the light and Rogue was surprised to find the person familiar.

Blue eyes the color of a clear summer morning's sky glittered mysteriously in the pale light. The hat was off; a shock of orange, unruly hair fell over the man's face. It was the person from the iron horse, the man with the beard who knew who she was and yet did not do anything about it. He recognized her as well—a dark smirk appeared on his attractive face and he spoke up without fear.

"Well, hell, if it ain't the Rogue Murderer herself."

"It's just Rogue," she answered, not at all amused. "An' yah aren't expected."

The man put her in her place. "As if yah belong 'ere as well."

"Ah don't go throwin' people around!" she defended herself. The man shrugged and pointed accusingly at the groaning Todd on the ground.

"He deserved it, dah little shit." The man did not go into details and Rogue did not pursue his reasons.

"Ahre yah here tah take me in, then? Ahre yah here tah take us all in?" Rogue saw the sides of his mouth curl up into a smile and she suddenly felt small.

"Nah, love. If anythin', I'm as bad as dis lot yah're with. Actually, I'm only 'ere fer Wanda Maximoff." Rogue stiffened at the way he said her name.

"Yah know Wanda Maximoff?" she asked, almost in a whisper. He laughed in her face.

"Do I know Wanda Maximoff?" he asked, his voice full of mirth, "I'm her bloody husband!"

Rogue couldn't help herself. "Husband! Yah mean yah're…"

"St. John Allerdyce," he introduced himself, all the while smiling wide. He then proceeded to examine her dress, sudden interest igniting his clear blue eyes. "An' I'm quite sure dat's her wedding dress yah're wearin', love."

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_Notes:_

1. disappeared

2. pursued the guy

3. from Death Cab for Cutie's _I Will Follow You into the Dark_

4. uncomfortable

5. I will come back to this thought in the afterward if anyone's curious or confused.

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_Response to my Wonderful Reviewer!_

Ishandahalf: Thank you for the review—I'm just glad I was able to get someone to comment on my story. I thought about Wanda and John's first meeting, and it just seemed natural to have them fight against each other. Perhaps, the fifth footnote could explain some of the tension, but then again, it's pretty vague for now. Gosh, I'm truly glad you're in a western mood because I'm going to have to feed off of that from you—the only country radio station in my area was replaced, so I hope you have enough energy to last us both! (laughs)

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Comments? Thoughts? Please review.


	5. Five

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: I couldn't help it—I needed to throw in a first-person. I thought I'd do some justice to Todd—he's always getting the short end of the stick anyway. I apologize for the wait and thank you all for your tremendous patience. I realize that this chapter is pretty long (on Word it was 12 pages!), and it would've been longer, but I edited and edited and this is the final product. I just couldn't put it up fast enough! All right, no more excuses--just read.

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**11. Todd Explains**

I have a policy which dictates that sometimes, you just gotta try. I went for the girl and came up short. That's how the story goes.

Yes, I admit I did some injustice trying to get Wanda on my side. But love is a funny thing, and I guess I couldn't see beyond what I wanted.

I was working on that same ranch when the Witch came with Allerdyce. I was in charge of the feed—not quite cowboy, but still, I was a hired hand. And it wasn't exactly the easiest job either—you just try getting around them cows all day and you'll know what I mean.

But this Wanda, gosh-darn, was she something. She could throw you a smile that'd knock you out, quick as a wink. It seemed every man that had at least half a heart admired the girl, and I'm not merely talking out of my ass either. The girl was just about amazing with a lariat tied at her hip, leggins, hat, and all.

She didn't flirt because she didn't have to. I did my share of winks and small talk, but while other girls would politely listen, she'd scoff in my face and kick at me like them cows with her powerful legs. Don't think I would've been able to walk again if she made her mark, that's for sure.

And finally I got to my senses and let her have it: I told her I was not kidding anymore. I wanted her and would not have any less. I even went so far as to tell her I loved her. Turns out, she was listening to me. It was one time I wished she didn't hear me and it was the one time she had taken in each word I uttered. And then she threw it back in my face.

She told me she was married. Wanda Maximoff, sixteen years old and so notoriously beautiful it could twist your stomach, was married. Turns out I was a weekend too late—she had gotten hitched the day I had off. Talk about perfect timing, huh?

So I walked away, disappointed, humiliated, you name it: every bad feeling was eating me alive at that moment. But it didn't stop there. Like I said, love is a funny thing, and I thought my love could turn her around, husband or not. All that night, I wondered what I could do to get Wanda to love me. Call me obsessed, call me stupid—don't think I don't agree with you already. But I was determined, and determination can get me pretty far. When morning dawned, I got up, washed my face, checked my tongue, ate some flies, and finally decided the husband had to go.

I didn't know much about him, but then again, nobody did. St. John Allerdyce. From Australia. Great at roping. He was quiet and didn't seem like much of a challenge. I guess you could say the same about me, but then again, love is a funny thing, and I only thought about how I could get to Wanda.

I should mention Wanda's father was looking for her this whole time—Mr. Eric Lehnsherr of Magneto Ranch in Texas. And you know what? He was willing to kill the bastard who took his daughter away. It was a perfect opportunity to take—I mean, someone else was willing to do the job for me. All I needed to do was turn him in. Which is exactly what I did.

There was a method to my madness, of course. I followed Wanda off Voight's Ranch a few weeks after John disappeared, and that was when she invited me to stay with her—it's where I've been ever since.

To keep the story short, I never got her to love me. My infatuation was not enough apparently and it never will be. Because you see, sometimes love isn't enough. And that's how I decided to stop chasing her around like a dog—you think you know what you want when it's actually what you should have avoided in the first place.

And yet, I still love her. Ain't love a funny thing?

* * *

**12. Homecoming**

**Brotherhood Hideout, outskirts of Tennessee: 1877**

He waited for her to say something, but it was taking awhile. Rogue just stared at him as if trying to search for his true intentions. But the more she looked, the more she came up short. _Maybe he's just telling the truth_, she thought to herself, _maybe he just wants his wife back._

"What's wrong, love? Did yah swallow yer tongue?" He reached over and tapped her on the arm. She recoiled almost immediately, surprising St. John with a livid scream.

"What dah hell's wrong with yah? Ah coulda kilt yah…"

"But yah didn't, see? If yah were gonna do harm, yah would've done it already." He raised his hands to reveal gloves. "Read 'bout yah in the paper. Figured if yah can kill with touch, gloves would come in handy." Come to think of it, he was pretty well covered from head to toe. Only his face was exposed, which, Rogue had to admit, was not at all bad to look at.

She set her teeth. "What do yah mean? Did yah follow me?"

"To an extent." He placed his cowboy hat back on his head. "I've been riding the rails for a time now—it's a good thing I chose dat last train, 'else I wouldn't be here at all. Followed everybody here, but had a hard time gettin' in. Too many doors." He wore a determined look that deepened the lines in his face, making him seem much older than she thought he could be. Rogue couldn't help but notice how tired he looked—with as many trains as there were back in the day, it wasn't hard to figure out why he seemed so exhausted.

This man, this St. John Allerdyce—he had returned for his wife. _Finally._ Rogue actually smiled. "Wanda's been waitin' for yah, mister."

She could tell he was taken aback. "Yah…believe me, love? Yah don't question who I am?" Rogue grunted, as if hurt with his distrust.

"Now, dat ain't up tah me tah decide, ain't it, Mister Allerdyce? An' Ah figured if yah were here tah do harm, yah would've killed me already." St. John was pretty surprised. He had prepared to prove his identity, but to be accepted as quickly as he was threw him a little. Rogue herself would've said more if it weren't for Lance coming up from behind and pointing his gun at John's head.

"Wanna tell me how you got in, stranger?"

John paused, his eyes frozen on Rogue's pale face.

She decided to stick up for Allerdyce. "Lance, put it away. It's St. John…" Her voice trailed away as Lance jerked their visitor around, his face gawking with surprise.

"You're alive?!" he cried in disbelief.

"No thanks tah yah, bastard," John snarled, driving his knee into Lance's crotch. Lance let out a cry of pain before falling to the ground with a helpless _bang!_

John turned back to Rogue, his eyes flashing a brilliant blue. "Where are the others?" he asked, his voice deep with vengeance. But she couldn't respond as fast as Fred came running in, packing a wallop against the Aussie's head. The force made John stagger back but he refused to fall. Fred caught him in a headlock and continued to bludgeon him right then and there; Rogue ran over and banged her gloved fists against Fred's back.

"Stop it! Stop it! He's Wanda's…"

"It don't matter who he is," Fred replied, between punches, "he ain't one of us!" John could only manage to squirm in Fred's hold, and that headlock was depriving him well out of oxygen.

Rogue plucked Lance's gun off the floor and pointed it at Fred. "You better let him go, Fred! Ah swear Ah'll shoot yah if yah don't!"

"Don't you dare!" This was Pietro, who came charging in and knocked the gun from her hands. "That man don't belong here, and you don't have any place to shoot one of us, Cherry!"

"Who don't belong here?" A voice called from the door frame. Wanda came in with a wide frown planted on her grim face, her gun in one hand, cowboy hat in the other. "What the hell are you all fighting over anyway?" She came into the room with her usual, lazy gait, eyes darting from one person to the other, until she settled her gaze on the stranger still locked under Fred's hold. But Fred had been distracted by Wanda's entrance and John had found himself halfway out. Fred, obviously not one to be fooled, reached over as to catch him from completely escaping, and pulled up his shirt tails to keep him in his grasp.

Wanda stopped breathing as soon as she saw those scars, long and ugly running across his back. "Stop it, Fred. Let me take care of this." Fred looked at her in a genuine stupor, but did as he was told. John fell down, his back towards Wanda. Rogue ran over and helped him up, noting his bloody face and cut lip. John tried to smile; he would be okay. But Wanda had raised her weapon and pointed it at the man with fatal intent on shedding blood.

"Get away, Logan's Kin. Let me talk to the stranger myself." Rogue backed away as dread filled her eyes while Wanda approached him. "What purpose do you have in disturbing us? Who sent you? I hope you didn't intend to turn us in…"

St. John, not in the mood to be beckoned into a fight, sat silently in the stillness, his clear blue eyes fixed on watching Rogue who was hiding in the shadows. Wanda noted his uncooperativeness and blew out a long exhale in annoyance. "You want me to kill you, stranger? Is that what it is? Because that can be arranged."

"Yah'd kill me anyway if I told yah." Rogue couldn't believe it. He was willing to let her shoot him without trying to prove himself to her.

"John—" Rogue called. Wanda's eyes flashed at the sound of his name "—John, tell her. Tell her who yah are. Tell her…"

"You'll kill him if you keeping blabbing, Logan's Kin," Wanda said. Rogue wished that the Scarlet Witch was drunk again. She was so much nicer when she wasn't in her right mind. So, Rogue decided to play her game—she grabbed the gun off the ground once more and pointed it at Wanda.

"Ah'll kill yah if yah don't listen tah him," she yelled, looking straight at the Scarlet Witch. Almost instantly, all guns were drawn and aimed at Rogue. Wanda smirked.

"You're audacious, Rogue. It's a nice quality of yours. Too bad it might just cost you your life." There was moment of silence in which John coughed and finally decided to speak up.

"Bloody hell, Wanda love. How much you've changed. It seems you've been playing God for a long time now, threatening others with your weapons, telling them their lives are in your hands. Just do as you say and everybody lives." He turned around in a heartbeat and grabbed her hand with the gun still aimed, plunging the weapon into his chest. "If you want to so badly, then do it. Kill me, Wanda. Kill me so that I know what I came back for is no longer mine. Kill me, because I've wasted my time lovin' yah all dis while."

She wanted to shoot, but he goaded her so much that she actually released the gun, leaving it in his hands. And then she saw his face, smashed pretty badly by Fred's enormous knuckles, and focused on those eyes of sky blue on a clear summer's day. So it was true. Those scars on his back, those shining eyes—she didn't want to believe it was him. But it was.

Rogue put her gun down; the Boys did the same. She stepped forward and tugged at John's arm, causing him to turn. "C'mon John, dat's enough." But for him, it wasn't.

"And yah think yar men have been on yar side dis entire time? Why don't yah ask them who dey were working fer before yah started workin' w' them? Why don't yah ask them if they've ever seen me before and what dah hell did dey did w' yar bloody husband?!" Finished with his speech, he spun away, throwing the gun on the ground with a loud –thwack!

And as suddenly as he came, he was out again, with no one to try and stop him. Not even the Scarlet Witch could call after him, for it was the first time in a long time that she has decided to bite her tongue and take it.

* * *

**13. Terrible Mistakes we Make**

**Voight's Ranch, South Dakota: 1873**

Wanda waits until he has settled himself close to her, his arm hanging protectively around her head. She waits until she feels his kiss sweet on her cheek, his nose nuzzled unto her neck. But she cannot turn around because she knows that if she sees his face, she will certainly burst into tears.

He talks about going to California, about getting this month's paycheck and then hightailing out of this place. But first, he would have to leave her for four months. And she would've rather him kill her now instead of enduring this slow death called wait.

"The cattle run will be over before yah know it," he whispers, his breath warm against her neck. "I'll be back and we can go tah California." All this talk about California makes her want to scream. She'd rather have him over California any day. But she does not say this. Instead, she challenges him: "Let's not. I hate California—I hear it has nothing but fruit trees anyway." She has never said this before. He pauses, wondering what to say. She goes on: "I don't want to go there."

"But we planned dis fer two months…" he starts, a little abrasively. She takes this as a fight.

"No, _you've_ planned it for two months, John. I'm just someone to bring along."

He stops. "All right, what's wrong, love…"

"You know what? It doesn't even matter anymore because you're leaving tomorrow anyway." He grabs her shoulder and turns her around.

"What's wrong w' yah, Wanda?" he searches her wonderingly, trying to figure her out. She struggles out of his grasp and sits up on the bed.

"Nothing's wrong with me, John. I'm just fine, thank you very much."

"Is it because I'm goin'? You know I have tah work…it's my job…"

"Of course, I know, John." She shakes her head. "I know."

"Then what is it? I won't go if yah don't want me tah leave… just tell me, Wanda." He tries to reach for her but she only pulls away farther. "Please." His voice is stiff with worry.

She looks into his earnest eyes and wonders if he already can see into her soul. But she figures against that notion; he could never understand.

"Nothing." She pushes herself off the bed, her nightgown loose around her shoulders. He watches her with wonder as she paces the floor, waiting for her to speak again. And yet when she does, it is not what he wants to hear. "Go to Texas, John. I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me tonight." She returns to her place by his side, but she closes herself off to him and he cannot reach her no matter how close he tries to come.

The dawn breaks and he rises. She lies there, listening to his quiet movement, wide awake and trying hard not to cry. At one point, he stops pulling on his boots, draws her close and gives her a kiss on her cheek. He tells her he loves her and to take care, kisses her again, and leaves, not aware that this is the last moment he would share with her for a long time.

---

The cowboys were taking an afternoon break by a nearby river. It would be their first rest on the cattle run and already John was glad to wash his sunburned face in the cold water. Nathan, another front rider, kneeled next to his tired comrade, and offered him a canteen.

"Long day already, huh, partner?" John nodded and graciously gulped his drink. Nathan watched, faintly interested. "I heard about your wife from Janie." John paused, trying to figure out what about his wife was worth talking about. She married him like the good woman she was, but he couldn't help thinking they were probably too young to wed in the first place. He feared that she had grown tired of him and was starting to move on, slowly but surely. And it was now that he realized that no matter how many times you break a wild horse, they'll always be wild at heart.

John almost didn't hear Nathan wish him congratulations. But the word brought him back to reality and he was both startled and curious.

"Fer what?" he wondered, absently. Nathan paused, trying to believe he really didn't know.

"Your wife's pregnant, isn't she? The women were talking about it yesterday."

"Pregnant?" His heart took a giant leap and fell into his stomach. "How long has it been?"

"Few weeks. She's not showin' yet if that's what concerns you…" John didn't hear Nathan finish his sentence—he was already off on Stallion, riding faster for the Dakotas than he ever wanted to in his life. He tried to figure her out, but Wanda had this prejudice against men not understanding her at all…and in that respect he didn't. He had made the terrible mistake of leaving and he might've made things right again if it weren't for that ambush waiting for him by the railroad tracks…

Stallion returned to Voight's Ranch two days later without his rider. And St. John was never heard from again.

* * *

**14. Worth the Wait**

**Brotherhood Hideout, outskirts of Tennessee: 1877**

"What's he talkin' 'bout?" she spoke softly, as if she hadn't talked in ages. "What did he mean about askin' yah all?"

They looked at each other, at a loss about what to say. So Wanda took up her gun and shot bullets at their feet. "I'm not gonna ask again," she sneered, pausing for their reactions. Pietro was the first to speak.

"What makes you think that's St. John anyway? You can't possibly believe some stranger who breaks into our hideout…" He stopped talking after meeting Wanda's angry glare. Those scars, those shining eyes. You didn't have to look twice to figure it was him.

"Don't doubt me, Pietro. I know my husband when I see him." She looked over at Fred then, who appeared to be rather uncomfortable with this conversation. "What happened on those tracks, Fred? Did you ever see that man before?" He tried to think of a lie, but one look at Wanda made him change his mind.

"Your father wanted him dead. But we only took him away, honest." She went over and grabbed his collar, yanking him down to meet her eye level.

"You think that makes it any better? You ever figured that I could have loved this man?"

"He took you away, Wanda," Lance put in, almost defiantly. "He took you away from us."

"Listen, Lance," she countered, letting go of Fred, "you didn't appreciate what I could do with my powers until _after_ he was out of the picture, _after_ I wanted to find him so badly." She stood her ground, infuriated. "Not once did you tell me about St. John. You all knew what had happened, and yet, you didn't tell me. You used me just for the sake of robbing trains. Father was trying to ruin my life and you were right there with him, doing his bidding and making my life miserable. But he's the only reason why I haven't shot you all down dead. You don't deserve what he does." She blew out a long, shaky breath. "You're all just stupid bastards. Collaborators of my future, Dad-blame it all." She shot them a dark look and fired an entire barrel at their feet, making each bandit jump around like the idiots that they were. She meant to say more, but scolding them was far from sufficient. So she decided to do worse. Wanda dropped her gun and told them there would no longer be a Scarlet Witch. She was through with the gimmick and would leave it up to the Boys to decide what to do with the Brotherhood Gang.

Wanda paused to look around, and the realization of her husband's departure after that less-than-pleasant encounter suddenly brought her back to her present situation. Panicked, she ran out of the hideout and was riding her horse into town, the intention of finding her husband burning in her heart like a fire she couldn't control.

When Wanda left in search of St. John, the Boys retreated into the shadows, miserable with the truth and angry with rejection. Rogue had heard Wanda announce her withdrawal from the Brotherhood Gang and also their explanations about kidnapping her husband and sending him to Australia. She also listened as the Boys talked about the only detail they couldn't figure out: how had Mr. Allerdyce managed to remain alive when Mr. Lehnsherr specifically talked about "finishing him off?" Rogue herself thought about Wanda and could only imagine what was running through that gal's mind: to lose the love of her life again would not only prove her robbing business pointless, but probably lead her to the final act of desperation: suicide.

"How terrible tah think so," Rogue murmured to herself, absently walking down the endless corridor while hoping Wanda would end up finding her husband. Suddenly, a hand grabbed hold of her gloved wrist and yanked her into a room. The place was briskly lit by the fireplace, but the girl could not tell how her captor could have turned it on since they were standing far from it. Rogue began to peel off her gloves, but her first reaction was to figure out who exactly had pulled her in.

To her surprise, she found St. John Allerdyce in front of her, his strong hand loosening on her thin wrist.

"Pardon me, Miss Rogue. I guess I've shaken yah." She gave him a dirty look before pushing him backwards with a hard shove.

"Ah coulda kilt yah again, St. John! Dammit, what dah hell are yah still doing 'round dese parts?" She paused, trying to remember if he even left in the first place. "Why, Wanda's gone out tah look fer yah! She quit this Scarlet Witch business and sent the Boys on their way and went out tah git yah!"

He looked at Rogue, but didn't seem to see her. "Well, I'll be," he breathed, as if talking to himself. "She did dat quicker than I counted on." He took off his cowboy hat then and placed it on the table. They were in the kitchen, and although it wasn't her place, Rogue decided to offer him some coffee after finding a can in the cupboard. She figured she needed it just as much as he did, and St. John readily accepted: that was very kind of her to suggest.

Rogue glanced at the tired St. John Allerdyce as she brought over the coffee pot. He smelled faintly of burning wood and this alone made her wonder where he had been before setting foot in the Brotherhood Hideout. While pouring him a cup of coffee, Rogue thought about what would happen if the Boys figured out John was still here and decided to do something about it. This apparently did not seem to cross John's mind at all as he obliging took the cup from Rogue and drank from it eagerly.

"How long have yah been in the States, Mr. Allerdyce?" she asked, cautiously, trying to see if he cared to converse. The Aussie placed the cup down quietly and a far off look came across his face; it was as if he had wanted to talk since they first met.

"Almost a year and a half now. Wanda isn't exactly dah easiest person tah find, mind yah." He downed the rest of the drink and sat back in his chair. "When I returned from Australia, I went back tah Voight's Ranch an' found out she had left a few weeks after I 'absquatulated.' Never heard from again. So dat put me in another rut until I came across a Wanted poster featurin' dah Brotherhood Gang. She's made quite a name fer herself in dese parts." He smirked to himself in admiration. "That woman can't stay in one place her whole life. But did yah see her turn dat gun on me? This life has changed her." Admiration gone, St. John shook his head, as if sad about her transformation.

"Ah think dat could be a possibility." Rogue set her cup down and looked her companion straight in the eye. "But I wouldn't say it changed her entirely. Maybe she might still love yah like she did before…maybe even more."

John poured himself another cup. "Perhaps I was a bit hard on 'er." He took a sip and let out a sigh. "Her father had been lookin' fer her when he finally found us. She was engaged, yah see, an' me takin' her with me to the Dakotas ruined his chance at a bigger fortune. So he came after me. I was on my way back home…" He drifted a little, a dark look appearing on his face as if the memory still broke him in two. "And they caught me as I was crossing the rails. Next thing I know, I'm on the next ship to Australia, and I didn't even get to say g'bye." Rogue noticed how his tone became heavier as he went on. "She was pregnant when I left. Voight said…said it died somewhere along the way…I wonder if she blames me fer it. I mean, I would take the blame if she would still care tah love me…" He suddenly broke from his reverie and managed to smile at his listener.

Rogue watched him closely, truly mystified with how languid he was. "Ah'm sorry…Ah didn't know…"

"It ain't anythin' tah dwell on. Just…sometimes I wonder how it could've been if I didn't leave her." He finished his coffee and suddenly got up. "Now, if yah don't mind, I can't stay 'ere—too restless, yah see."

"Are yah goin', Mister Allerdyce?" Rogue spoke a little doubtfully and was embarrassed when he chuckled at her.

"Nah, love. I think I'll believe yah and try my luck with Wanda again. I mean, I didn't come all dis way fer nothin'. I'm just gonna wait fer dat Sheila outside." He took up his cowboy hat and gave her a wide grin and a wink. "Thanks for the coffee, Rogue." He stopped by the door and turned to face her. "But who knows? Maybe she does still love me…maybe even more…"

He went out then and disappeared into the hall as the door closed behind him with a gentle click.

- - -

He waited, just like he said he would. He built a makeshift fire and stood by it for its warmth, waiting anxiously out in front. He waited until the sun began to set and then, just when he was about to nod off to sleep in front of his fire, he noticed someone leading their horse towards the hideout. It was her; she had finally come back. St. John jumped to his feet and smoothed down his hair and beard in a hasty attempt to look acceptable. And then he waited some more until she was close enough to discern.

She never smelled like peaches or ripe berries, but instead, always, always carried the scent of horse and stable and hay. St. John was reminded of this as he looked on while she walked towards him, a lone figure in this unusually warm night for October.

"G'day, Sheila." He spoke coolly, almost as if to still his beating heart. She gazed at him with wonder in her mysterious blue eyes that sparkled like sapphire. Her jaw dropped in her surprise and she actually pointed at him.

"I thought you absquatulated again, Johnnie." She smiled then, a real smile of relief that betrayed how much she had missed him. "But I guess you never left." She did not talk about how she went from saloon to hotel in search of her husband, and the search had frustrated her since it had been so fruitless—she had to halt her horse because it was hard to ride while crying. And even though tears started to form behind her eyes, she refused to cry mainly because she was afraid to be weak, especially around her husband.

"No, I didn't." He gave her an almost-smile, one that could've been wider but wasn't. "Rogue told me yah were out, so I decided tah wait fer yah." He poked his fire with the toe of his boot. "Come 'ere, darlin'. Yah must be freezin'." He took off his coat and offered it to her. In her haste to leave, she did not take her tattered scarlet coat, but then again, the cold was not her priority. She had only wanted to find John. So why did it feel like he was the one who found her?

"Much obliged," she mumbled, putting his coat around her shoulders. It was a few sizes too big, but perfect just the same. The coat carried with it his scent of fire and brimstone, and although she didn't want to, Wanda started to cry. She just kept thinking about how close she was to losing him all over again, and that alone was too much to take. It wasn't until her husband himself wrapped his arms around her that she stopped, too overwhelmed to speak.

"I'm sorry, Wanda." His lips were at her ear; his beard tickled her cheek. "I'm sorry tah keep yah waitin' these past years." He held her against him tightly as if he feared she would slip from his grasp again, his arms strong as they stroked her back. "I shoulda been dere fer yah and dah baby. I shoulda never left…"

"I don't care about that, Johnnie—it's all in the past. You're here now…" She wiped her face with her cold hands and managed to smile up at her husband. "You stayed." Wanda rested her head against his shoulder and waves of regret and guilt beat down upon her heart until she couldn't keep it to herself any longer. "I've been horrible, St. John. I did those things, those things that we're both ashamed about. But I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't have people feeling sorry for poor Wanda Allerdyce who lost her husband_ and_ her child, one after the other. No, I wasn't going to stay on that ranch and knit myself to death. So I ran away again. I had no life there as long as you were gone. I made my own life. And although it made enough for me to survive, it was utterly pointless because it never brought you back." She looked down, and John could tell she was disgusted with herself.

"You don't have tah stay like dis, love." And as he looked into her face, he saw the wife he had loved all this time, and he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about the nights when he'd sleep in barns with the animals, or the food he received from the kindness of others, or the people who'd pay his whiskey tab just to have someone to talk to. He wanted to tell her of his success in Australia, about writing his first novel and having it published to an accepting audience. But even though he knew she would listen to his every word, he could only gaze at his Wanda, tangible and alive, and this alone was enough. He bowed his head and she met his lips halfway. They kissed for the first time in a long time, and their shadows, cast long by the glowing fire, once again were melded together, a reflection of two lost souls that lived for no one but each other and were finally given a second chance to start over again.

* * *

**15. The 10 o'clock Train**

**Main Train Station, Tennessee: 1877**

The train station was nearly deserted when they arrived. Rogue waited with Wanda and John as Remy left to buy tickets.

"They'll be back; once they find out the Scarlet Witch is no longer around, they'll be back." They. Customers too scared to ride the train. Wanda smiled to herself and then at Rogue. "You've done good here, Logan's Kin, helping us out." She stepped forward and brought the girl into a hug. "Thank you, Rogue, for everything."

Rogue, uncomfortable with being touched, accepted her embrace but held her breath until she withdrew. John, knowing her discomfort, only took her gloved hand to kiss it.

"Good luck, Miss Rogue. I wish we could do more than accompany yah tah dah the station."

"It's more than enough, Mister Allerdyce." She looked at the couple and straightened the black dress which Wanda had given to her, who took back her wedding dress with a laugh. "Where will yah two go now dat yah're together again?"

John smiled down at his wife and answered for the both of them. "California. We've been thinking about living there fer awhile…"

"But we'll be able to see you again, Rogue," Wanda put in. "Word gets around. If anything, we can visit when you finally settle." She paused, thinking about where she was heading. "Last time I saw Xavier, he was in Texas. Of course, he'd be in the North, although and I wish I could tell you where exactly…"

Remy returned then, handing Rogue her ticket. He bade Wanda good-bye, who threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss.

"Be kind to her, Remy," she said in his ear, "maybe she's the one who'll change you." Wanda pulled away then, a secretive grin playing on her face. Remy looked at her questioningly before settling their departure with a smile. "I don't think you've met my husband, St. John Allerdyce, Remy." The Aussie stuck out a hand. Remy gazed at the gesture with uncertainty before donning his trademark smirk.

"Of course, de infamous St. John. I've heard plenty 'bout y'." They shook hands and exchanged hard glances. John frowned, knowing he had seen this man's face before, but because the train was about to leave, there was nothing he could do or say to stop Remy from loading the iron horse after Rogue.

And then the train lurched forward and was out of Tennessee in no time.

* * *

**16. On the Way to Australia**

**En route to Australia: 1873 **

He was coming to. Coughing, John squinted at the bright sunlight and tried to get up.

"I wouldn't do thet if I were y', mon ami." John looked up, confused with the voice that greeted him. It was different and thick with an accent he couldn't put his finger on.

"Bloody hell…" He tried to move his arms and legs, but they were bound together by dense rope. Memories caught up with him then, painful thoughts of being tied long before this, flashbacks of being nearly beaten to death by young boys…a large one with equally large fists…a thin, lanky boy with hair like silver…another with a demeanor of nonchalance and Old Orchard on his breath…and the one who made sure he was taken away, that one called Todd who was in charge of the feed back on Voight's Ranch. He thought about these boys now and his heart was filled with loathing, but none of these people could be found at this moment. In fact, land was not in sight at all…

"Dis ain't even America anymore." That fact hit John as quickly as he could distinguish the smell of salty seawater in the air. As he would later figure out, they were sailing towards Australia without a minute to lose.

"Who are yah?" he suddenly asked the stranger who sat next to him, slowly sharpening a bounty knife.

"Don't matter," the man responded, raising his weapon, ready to strike. John flew into a panic but was helpless with useless limbs too stiff to work.

"Where's my wife? Why are yah doin' dis? Tell me!"

"It don't help t' yell like thet," the stranger replied, and started cutting at the ropes around his wrists. When he had finished untying John, he allowed the Aussie to sit up against the boat's mast and massage his swollen ankles and hands.

"Who are yah?" John asked again, more out of curiosity than anything. Was this stranger setting him free now? What was he up to anyway?

"Call me Gambit." Gambit? John remembered hearing the word before, but it was far from being considered a name. "But once you're in Australia, y' must forget about me and your wife and South Dakota."

"No! I can't have yah do dis tah me!" John tried to get up but Gambit held the knife closely to the Aussie's face with deadly intent.

"Please mon ami, don't make me. Gambit's been given orders t' make sure y' don't come back alive."

John eyed the blade with pure terror. "What will convince yah otherwise?" He was gambling for his life—something he never thought he would have to do. Ever. "Money? Power?"

Gambit actually laughed at him. "There ain't nothin' yah can give me. Gambit don't want your poor offerings."

"Then if yah do kill me, would yah tell Wanda…tell 'er I loved 'er even when it didn't seem dat way…can yah do dat at least, Gambit?" His voice was pleading—almost breaking as he thought about his wife and their baby. John saw Gambit look beyond him; Australia was coming into view now.

"For your loss, I give my condolences. But de thing is, I don't do favors f' nobody." Gambit struck John across the head and he fell down stiff.

When John finally came to again, Gambit was gone and he was laying half-dead on the shores of Cooktown in Australia.

The stranger had spared his life after all.

* * *

**17. A Face He Can't Shake**

**Location: Somewhere en route to California: 1877**

Wanda pushed off the covers to find her husband lying on his side, his scarred back towards her. She suddenly realized he was awake for when she kissed his broad shoulders, John winched slightly.

"John?" Her voice was harsh—her lips were dry and spent from kissing his mouth all night. She stroked his back longingly, following the creases running up and down his spine.

"Hmm, love, I'm ticklish there." He turned around and wrapped his arm behind her head. "Yah been awake too?"

She leaned her head in and kissed him gently. "Mmm. How long you've been up?" The furrow in his brow alarmed her. "Darling? St. John, what's the matter?"

He paused before smiling at her. "Yah still can tell when I'm uneasy, huh?" He kissed her eager mouth and pulled her body closer to his. "The truth is, I'm really not sure." The concern on his face made Wanda worry.

"Tell me, John. I can keep a secret." To convince him, she kissed him again. "Tell me."

He paused before scratching his beard in a thoughtful manner. "It's just dat…dat man who left w' Rogue…"

Wanda cocked her head to the side. "Remy LeBeau? What about him?"

John snorted. "I just don't…I don't…I get bad vibes from him." Wanda laughed at this and gave her husband another kiss.

"Remy should be the last thing on your mind, Mr. Allerdyce. He's doing Rogue a favor by taking her up North."

John nodded, pressing his face against his wife's. "Of course. I thought it was nothing…" But why did it bother him so? Nevertheless, he could not think of it any longer for Wanda had wrapped her arms about his neck and was pulling him to her so persistently that he could do nothing more than take her in his arms and kiss his wife and forget everything and anything else in the world.

* * *

I wonder what is on your minds...care to review? 


	6. Six

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Would you hate me for rewriting Chapter Six? I was not exactly happy with what I had put up, so I wrote and wrote and after twelve pages of new material and some old pieces, I came up with this. I will credit the fact that midterms are over for being able to put this out before summer, and this short-term accomplishment has earned me a bit more satisfaction with this story. Piotr and Kitty deserve that at the very least...But enough of this idle chatter and on with the revised chapter...and as always, please Review!

* * *

**Part Three: Kentucky **

**1. Detour**

**Main Train going to New York: 1877**

She woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. It was too real, too much. Again, the present seemed to disappear and Rogue was back in Caldecott, standing over Logan's dead, cold body. This time though, he had not only touched her bare hand, but had grabbed her face with his paws and actually _held on_.

The thought left her shaking. She had not dreamed of Logan before, not since the…accident. That's all it was, she told herself, over and over again. It wasn't her fault Logan was gone. But the guilt was there, sitting stubbornly upon her heart, so heavy and dense that it was enough to crush her alive. But she would not let it go too far; Remy would help. He would…

She sat up, instantly alert. Remy, usually by her side, was nowhere in sight. _Had he left?_ Dread filled the void in her empty chest and she almost panicked if it weren't for the thief ripping open the door to their booth and promptly closing it behind him at that moment.

Relief flooded her mind but she tried to act casual, sheepishly wiping her eyes for effect. "Seems Ah fell asleep," she mentioned groggily. However, Remy failed to notice her lethargy—he was actually more occupied with getting the window open.

Rogue was bewildered, but only for a moment. Her confusion immediately warped into alarm as Remy, accomplished with opening the window, proceeded to climb right through it.

"Is there a problem?" She suddenly asked, as Remy's head moved to the other side of the window. "Yah know if yah wanted attention, yah could've just shook me awake."

"Y', y', y'. Why does everythin' always have t' revolve around y'?" He was completely on the other side now, scowling at her. "So are YOU coming or not?"

"Comin'?" She was puzzled. "Yah mean out there?"

"Don't judge de situation, darling, just because dis isn't de recommended way to travel." He suddenly appeared thoughtful. "I mean, it's only a movin' train…"

"Don't start, LeBeau," she retorted, bitterly.

"It ain't goin' thet fast, Chere. Y' better get out 'ere."

"Ah think Ah like it inside better, thank yah."

"Y' won't when dey find y' sittin' all pretty."

"They, Mister LeBeau?"

"De _police_." He emphasized the word to convey the seriousness of the situation. "Apparently somebody recognized us …" He let his words trail away and sink in.

Rogue opened up her door a crack and saw people inspecting the adjacent booths.

So, without further deliberation, the girl finally gathered up her wits and climbed outside.

He smiled crookedly as she reached his side, and she knew right off the bat that he was proud of being right. "Nice of y' t' join me, Chere."

"Can it, LeBeau. Just tell me what's next on your _reliable_ agenda."

"Don't be crass, beb. I don't appreciate sarcasm." But he was still smiling.

"I just woke up; I can be any way I want."

He simply shrugged. "Suit yourself, beb. But y' better get yourself together—we's gonna jump."

"_Jump_?" Her voice faltered at the prospect.

"Or fall off, but preferably, yes, we're gonna jump."

Then she was incredulous. "Are you off your rocker? We're probably goin' fifty miles an hour on dis thing!"

"Correction: we're going forty-five, and if y' want t' get specific, we've got less than a minute t' get off dis train before somebody looks out their window and notices two people standing 'ere…I don't know about y', but I'd find thet pretty suspicious…"

"I can't jump," she shouted, clinging desperately to the side of the train. "I don't do well with moving things…"

"Aw, beb, it's not so bad."

"Mighty easy for _yah_ tah say. I bet you've never been thrown from a horse an' a cart on dah same day before." She shook her head. "Nuh-uh, I don't do well in dah air."

"Granted, I have no idea what you're rattlin' about, but we've got t' get off soon." He suddenly grabbed her arm and held it tightly. "I'm not promisin' anythin'."

She glared at him. "Ah didn't ask fer your word on mah _life_, LeBeau."

"Then JUMP…" and they were in the air for several seconds before gravity took over and sent them crashing into the bushes below.

It seemed like a coon's age before either of them could roll to a stop, away from the railroad tracks. Rogue moved over unto her back, both elbows throbbing. She slowly opened her eyes to find Remy lying a few feet from her, smiling as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Chere." The man reached over and poked her side with one gloved finger. "Chere, y' all right?"

OhGodohGodohGod. She sat up and abruptly patted herself. Still intact. Still alive.

The thief smirked. "Don't be so surprised, Chere. We mutants are a sturdy breed." But as he moved to get up, his face contorted with pain he could not mask, so he propped himself against Rogue and let out his breath slowly.

Rogue used the silence to carefully inspect herself. A few scrapes decorated her thin arms underneath her tattered sleeves and her knees were slightly scuffed under her heavy skirts. Remy looked worse off—his head bandage was beginning to unravel, and all along his entire body were cuts that ran lengthwise and bleeding.

"Bright idea, eh LeBeau?" She tried sounding annoyed but found it harder than usual to pull off. "You got any antiseptic?"

"Just my whiskey."

"Dat ain't antiseptic."

"Well, thet's why it's MY antiseptic, now ain't it?" He pulled out the bottle and put it to his lips. She watched him for a few moments before snatching away the drink.

"It don't help any if yah don't share," she firmly explained before downing the rest. When she returned her attention to LeBeau, Rogue found him smiling crookedly back at her.

"You're somethin' else, y' know thet, Rogue?"

"Don't even…and stop lookin' at me dat way. We've got tah get yah decent again, LeBeau." She pointed to his head. "Don't yah have any bandages? Yer wound's makin' me sick."

He smirked, but compliantly searched his pockets for extra gauze to hand her. She snatched it from him and immediately began to loosen the old bandages around his head.

"I knew you'd be good f' _somethin_, Chere," the thief joked loosely, his red eyes dancing. Rogue tried her best not to notice.

"Ha ha. If yah didn't look so bad, Ah would have clobbered yah good by now, LeBeau." She finished the job and Remy placed his Stetson back on his head. "Can yah walk?" She asked.

He glanced at her. "Can _y_'?"

She slowly stood up; her legs ached. "It don't feel like anything's broken."

The thief got to his feet with her help. "Guess we're good t' go, den," he said, smiling down at the girl.

"But if yah get dizzy, yah better speak up."

His smile widened. "Y' actually sound like y' care, Chere."

She scowled in return. "Ah think you'll know when Ah actually care about somebody lahke yah, Remy."

They started walking then, aimlessly it seemed. The sun was high and hot in the sky as they continued to roam the wilderness.

"It's been a while since I've been in dese parts," she heard her companion muse. "Smell dat?" He suddenly asked. Rogue did not know what he was talking about. "There ain't nothin' like de smell of coal. We're close."

Apparently Remy LeBeau did know where he was going after all.

Rogue did not understand. "Close?" Remy glanced at her and said nothing. That was when Rogue lost her patience. "Dammit, Rems, why'dya have tah be so vague?"

"Lil' impatient, are we?" He was amused. "We should be heading east into Kentucky." The thief suddenly stopped walking; they had reached a clearing in the forest. "There she is." Rogue looked, not especially sure about what she would see.

It was a coal mine, big and sturdy and yet terrifyingly vulnerable against the backdrop of Kentucky's mountains. Its entrance was wide and dark; a sign bearing "Slicker's" hung lopsidedly above the threshold. Carts filled with coal stood idly by while workers with shovels filed in and out of the mine.

"Ah've never seen such sights before," Rogue admitted, to no one in particular. Remy took one hard glance at that mine before walking away. "Now where we off to?" Rogue whined after him, exasperated, and had to sprint to keep up.

"We ain't gonna show our faces 'ere. It ain't safe."

"Then how will we find a room in town?"

"We aren't goin' t' town." A cigarette appeared between his lips. "I know people 'ere." He sneaked a sideways glance at her and snorted. "Y' weary, beb? Should we put off on de side of the road f' awhile?"

Rogue growled under her breath, knowing full well that he was not in the least concerned of her condition. "Must be easy fer yah," she mumbled, miserable with the heat, "Jumpin' off trains, gettin' lost in wilderness, and yet when all hope seems lost, yah still know which way yer goin'."

"It wasn't always like dat," Remy muttered back. She could hear by the strain in his voice that he was not doing so well himself.

"Still," Rogue persisted, wiping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, "you've been through all dis before. Plus, Ah've got tah git through while wearin' a damn dress." He laughed at that.

"Don't worry, Rogue. There's a well up ahead—we can stop there and rest awhile." They were striding through a field of wildflowers then, with not a tree in sight. But true to Remy's word stood the well in the distance, and right behind that was a run-down looking shack with a broken front porch.

Rogue quickly pumped the well and brought up its contents as soon as she reached it. The water ran down her throat, cool and relieving. She turned to offer Remy some, but found the man staring off into the distance, his eyes locked on an aloof figure standing next the shabby shack.

"Afternoon," the figure greeted, but did not approach them. He didn't sound too friendly.

Remy nodded his head. "Afternoon," he returned, his voice equally distant. "I hope y' don't mind us getting' some water."

"Normally I would," the figure replied. He suddenly walked towards their direction. Rogue noted the hardhat he carried in one hand and an oil-wick lamp in the other. "But since the last incident, we do not have many people passing through nowadays."

"I'm sorry t' hear it," Remy replied, and actually smiled sympathetically.

"Yes, well, they do happen." There was a certain sadness behind the man's attempt at complacency, but he nevertheless waved them on. "Which way are you heading, stranger?"

"Actually, we were plannin' on stayin' a few days 'ere." Rogue knitted her brow at that, annoyed that she did not know this part of the story herself. "I used t' work at Slicker's a few years ago…I'm wonderin' if Piotr Rasputin still lives in dat dere shack."

The man stood his ground, a frown fixed on his face. "What exactly are you getting at, stranger?"

Remy seemed to hold back a laugh. "_Piotr Rasputin_, how _have_ y' been." The man did a double take, finally recognizing the red tint in Remy's eyes and somber posture in his tired stance. And then he gawked at Remy as if he were some sort of ghost come back to haunt him.

"Remy LeBeau?" He couldn't be sure. "Remy LeBeau? Good Lord, I have not seen you since you decided to take that job down in Texas." He came bounding then, and thumped Remy on the shoulder as soon as he joined his friend's side. "What brings you back to Kentucky, LeBeau?"

"What's keeping you _in_ Kentucky?" Remy laughed, a nice, hearty laugh that brought a smile to Piotr's face. "I t'ink your ears have gotten blacker since I last saw y'. Still workin' Slicker's an' livin' near Durham, eh?"

Piotr tried to explain himself. "Well, it _is_ easier working in that coal mine right now—we are putting that new steam shovel to work."

"All right, I'll come and see, but y' know me, Petey: ain't much f' hard work." Rogue quietly snickered at that, but kept her eyes on the coal miner. She had been observing the new acquaintance for awhile now, and with his wide shoulders and dark hair, she thought he looked handsome enough even with coal dust covering the top of his ears. Piotr glanced at her curiously, and despite the fact that the man stood about two heads above her, Rogue was not the least bit intimidated.

Remy grabbed her sleeve then and introduced the two. And although Rogue knew better, she couldn't help but blush when Piotr kissed her gloved hand.

"Rasputin's a pro at Slicker's," Remy began to boast as they all turned towards the shack, "He could put up a post t' hold up de ceilin' in less than fifteen minutes. I don't know what thet mine would do w'out y', Petey."

Piotr was humble enough. "Unfortunately, that is all I do nowadays. And they also make me haul coal when that is done. They use me more than the mules, I fear." He pushed open the creaking door to let them inside.

"Not much has changed, eh, Petey? Still overworked and underpaid?"

"Do _not_ tell me you came here just to talk about what I already know. I assure you: I _do_ know what I am doing." He turned to wink at Rogue. "I am so terribly sorry you got stuck with him, Miss Rogue. It seems the only thing good about Remy is that he knows where he is going, even when he is lost."

Rogue laughed, "Ain't _dat_ dah truth!"

"Ha-ha," Remy replied, without humor. And then he turned wistful. "But it _would_ be nice t' see everyone again," he put in. Rogue noticed Piotr darken considerably, upon which Remy changed the subject. "But I'll be frank, w' y', Petey: we've got ourselves in a bind down South, and we're tryin' to reach North 'fore they can haul us in." He spoke with a grave cadence as if to hint at the severity of their situation.

Piotr caught on quick. "Then stay here. Kentucky is lonesome, but between the coal patch town and the cities, I would say you are safe for the time being."

"Dat's what I figured," Remy smirked, suddenly eyeing Piotr's equipment still in his hands. "But I see we've caught y' at a bad time."

Piotr shook his head. "Of course not. Actually, I was on my way out…but please, make yourselves at ease. I will be back later to prepare dinner." And Peter caught Rogue's gaze and held it. "I hope you will not mind the mess, Miss Rogue. I truly appreciate your company."

"Ah ain't goin' nowhere," she reassured him. They exchanged smiles before Piotr finally left, closing the door quietly behind him. After watching the door for a bit, Rogue turned her attention to Remy and found the thief gazing at her carefully, as if he were trying to piece together an opinion about her.

"Somethin' up?" She asked mildly. He shrugged in response.

"Dat was easier than I thought." Remy turned up his head and began inspecting the shack.

"He must trust y' plenty, lettin' us stay in his home," Rogue observed from her place by the window.

"He can trust me," The thief smiled crookedly, "'cuz he don't have anythin' worth stealin'." And then, as if forming his next move, Remy sprung back to the door.

"Are yah leavin'?" Rogue was troubled.

"Don't fret, beb. I'm goin' out—gonna get us jobs. Inconspicuous jobs, of course."

"Of course." Rogue narrowed her eyes and watched him walk through the door. "But all dah same, Ah hope yah know what you're doin', 'cause Ah sure don't."

He ignored her and shut the door, and through the window Rogue watched as he started going one direction, changed his mind, headed the other way, then changed his mind again and returned to his original path. And she watched, silently, as his figure grew smaller and smaller until she couldn't make him out any longer and he disappeared altogether.

* * *

**2. Wishing for Better Days **

**The Pryde Household in Deerfield, Illinois: 1875**

Kitty Pryde had always been the good girl. Good girl with good grades and a good family. But all good things come to an end eventually—for Kitty, it came in the form of becoming a mutant. One morning, she woke up halfway through her bedroom floor and the living room ceiling and figured nothing would ever be the same again.

Do good girls have mutant powers? Kitty didn't know. All she knew was that her folks were going to send her to some guy called Xavier up North. They always seemed to be up North, these people who wanted to help.

Her parents tried to be supportive: _We still love you._

_Xavier wants to take you to his school…he says he can help you…_

She laughed at that, at them. Sure he has some sort of mind-reading capabilities, but can Xavier walk through walls? Does he live with the fear of sinking into the earth at any given time? No, he can't help. No one can. She was sure of it.

Kitty was perched on her window ledge, waiting. It had struck midnight a few minutes ago so she knew her parents were fast asleep. Her lamplight was still on—she hadn't thought to blow it out just yet. A knapsack sat in her lap, full of food, a few pieces of clothing, and soap. It was only a matter of time now. She knew what she was doing, and for the first time after her mutation was triggered did Kitty feel in control of her own life again.

That night, Kitty Pryde gave up being the good girl. She had decided to run away with the only man she knew she could trust. His name was Lance Alvers—dark hair, nice face. Was it love? Kitty was sure of it. They went to the same school, they were both mutants. He could move the earth; she could walk through walls. And even when Lance left school to support himself, he always found some way to return so he could visit her. As Kitty saw it, their love for each other came as naturally as their friendship.

So when she told him about Xavier, Lance grabbed her hand and convinced her to run away with him, far from Illinois. They can't understand, those humans who hunt mutants like wild things. Even if Xavier is kind, even if he claims to be mutant himself, it ain't right. You can't trust your parents, you can't trust Xavier. You can only trust me, he told her. Lance would help her. He'd take her away and keep her safe—Kitty was sure of it.

She heard a sound—he had arrived. Opening the window, she looked down and he waved back up at her. First went her knapsack, then Kitty herself climbed down. Once on the ground, Kitty quickly loaded unto Lance's horse, using only his shoulder to help hoist her up.

"Got everythin'?" he asked, absently. She couldn't bring everything, but nodded anyway. "You sure?"

"I'm sure of it," she confirmed, and hung on tight as the horse started galloping away.

* * *

**3. The Hidden Room**

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

It was a long afternoon.

Rogue busied herself with organizing the stacks and stacks of newspapers and books in that small room. She sat in her half finished work, wondering why she kept put in the first place, when a letter suddenly fell out of the binding of a loose book she was holding upright and slipped right under the wall. Rogue hesitated, knowing very well that it was not a wall behind that stack of books—it was a door. She stooped down and pushed it open—which was not easy for there were many, many things in her way. Finally, the door gave way and she tumbled into another room. It seemed abandoned with cobwebs lining the walls and a rancid, musty smell reeking throughout the space.

Easels of different sizes were stacked up against the wall. Portraits of faraway places depicting snow capped mountains, long winding rivers, and threatening clouds spanned the entire room. There were even drawings of faces, smiling and beautiful with darling expressions. Rogue set her sights on a pile of canvases depicting the same thin, lovely girl with the saddest of expressions. None of them were colored, but the girl was artfully sketched specifically to convey her melancholy. When Rogue finally ripped her eyes away from the drawings, she came across the letter on the floor, the letter that had started this entire ruckus in the first place. She calmly unfolded it, and without thinking twice, Rogue began to read:

_Dearest Piotr,_

_It's been awhile since you've heard from me, but that's because I've been thinking a lot lately, thinking a lot about you and me. We had good times, long conversations about nothing together. I'll always remember the way you made me feel. But Petey, we both knew it had to come to an end someday. Don't make yourself believe you love me—you'll only be more disappointed. I figure we should end it now before things get too messy. I led you to believe it could've been more when there was nothing to begin with. And for that, I'm sorry, but you're better off without me._

And as if the devil himself had spoken, Piotr appeared, entering the room without the slightest sound. He was as black as the night, dusted down to his shoes from mining. Rogue drew in a nervous breath, noting the smell of coal that he carried. She watched him come in, slowly, cautiously, as if he did not trust the room at all.

Rogue tried to explain herself. "Ah…didn't mean to intrude."

He gazed at her tentatively. "I did not accuse you of anything."

"Ah know," she said guardedly, "but…it was none of mah business."

"Really?" He came over and took the letter from her, skimmed its message, and placed it on the nearest table, shrugging.

"Yah…aren't angry with me?" She seemed astounded at his patient demeanor.

He did not bother to answer her question. "Where did Remy run off to?" Piotr suddenly asked—a feeble attempt at conversation. "Oh, and I hope you like coffee—it is just about ready…" Rogue watched him exit and wondered if he had been there the entire time as she explored the abandoned room.

"He said he went job-huntin'. An' Ah take coffee juss fahne, thanks."

Piotr snorted. "That Remy is always working." And then he laughed. "I guess that makes two of us then." He brought over a pot of steaming coffee and poured her a cup. "And you, Miss Rogue? Why are you truly with that thief?"

She paused to drink. It tasted flat. "I need to go up North and he's helping me get there." He glanced at her inquiringly.

"Is that all?"

"It's dah truth." She looked down into her cup and grimaced.

"I am not one to doubt, but usually there is more to the story." Rogue gazed at him, intrigued. "Well, I am sure you know of his reputation…though, I admit he has not brought anyone to meet _me_ in particular…"

"We were only passin' through," she replied curtly, upset with the subject. "An' dah only reason why Ah'm hangin' around is because Ah need his help."

Piotr gazed at her intently, suddenly aware of her defensiveness. "I did not mean to offend you…"

Rogue quickly placed her coffee down on the wooden floor. "Don't mention it, Piotr. It ain't worth your time." She silently got up and stalked through the door and into the cold night air.

She heard him call after her. "Would it help to know you are not alone in your troubles?"

The girl was belligerent. "Yah tellin' me dis for sympathy?"

Piotr finally appeared, his face somber and drawn. "I did not mean to test your patience. I become cross when I am tired," he explained, holding out a blanket which he had grabbed on the way out. "Please, come back inside. I would not want Remy to return and find you ill."

Rogue, turning to take the blanket, sensed his sincerity. "So people 'ere already know 'bout me?" When he did not answer, she nodded. "How much do yah know? What are they sayin'?"

"It is only gossip…"

"What are they sayin'?" She demanded, her eyes hard. Piotr stared at her, his expression mixed with surprise and displeasure.

"Rogue murderer of Caldecott, Mississippi, accused of killing three men in cold blood. She might be heading through the North or the West but they cannot be sure…they speculate she is a mutant." His voice was dull, rattling off the facts one after the other. When her only reaction was a scowl, Piotr spoke again. "Is it true, then? All that talk…" His voice died as soon as he realized that it was certain.

"What if Ah said yeah, dat every bit of dat is true?" Her voice was quiet; her back was towards him. "Would yah still trust me?"

In the silence that ensued, Rogue was almost certain he would send her packing. But he surprised her yet again. "I think you would be interesting company, Rogue. But if you _are_ planning on killing me, I just hope it is clean and quick." The way he said it, it was as if he were proposing the matter as an option. The girl whirled around, not believing what she was hearing. Piotr's eyes were twinkling but his expression was bleak, the lines of his face evident in the pale moonlight.

"Yah aren't afraid of me? A _mutant_?" She snarled the word. Piotr raised an eyebrow, surprise written across his face.

"So Remy was not considerate enough to mention my own powers?" Rogue stared at him, confused, until it finally dawned on her that he too was what she had only come to realize recently about herself.

"You're a mutant too?"

"Misery loves company," Piotr mused darkly, his lips pulled into a sarcastic smirk. "But at least you will be safe here. I will make sure of it."

Rogue carefully shook out the blanket and wrapped it around herself. "Yah know, it was an accident. Ah never meant tah hurt no one."

He nodded, sympathetically. "Tragic, eh?" His eyes roamed back into the house and unconsciously settled on the hidden room near the front door. Piotr stared into that room as if he were stunned that it even existed in the first place.

Rogue noticed his reverie. "Yah paint?" Her neutral question caught him off-guard, but he decided to answer her with a nod.

"It has been awhile." There was an unsettling silence before Piotr continued, immersed in his own thoughts. "To think, it all meant something at one time." He glanced at the letter folded neatly on the table and scowled. "I threw it all away the day she left me."

Rogue pressed on, knowing that what he had mentioned was not even half of the story. "She must've been somethin', tah have her mean so much—enough tah abandon all dis." Rogue glanced at the painted girl's face whose eyes stared off to the side, haunting the entire room.

"It was all my fault. I fell in love with her…" He trailed off, his face darkening. "No, I take that back. She left me this way. Broken, shattered—she made sure I would never be the same again. If there is anyone to blame for my current state, it would be her."

Rogue stared at him sideways. "Why did she leave?"

He glanced her way, incredulous for her demand to explain. More incredulous was the fact that he chose to respond. "Money." His voice cracked. "I did not have any." And he actually chuckled. "Is it not ironic, how the very thing I was trying to avoid in the first place is the only thing I live for now?"

"Petey," she replied, her eyes hard on his face. "You don't have tah work so much. You don't have anythin' tah prove tah her…"

"I am not doing this for her," he snapped, "I am trying my best to _forget_ her. Working keeps me busy—at least my mind is not constantly thinking about _her_..." But something in his voice hinted that his plan was not going too well. "I have said too much," he said, his voice faltering.

"Possibly," Rogue returned, "but it seems yah haven't said anythin' 'bout dis tah anyone for too long."

"Maybe you are right," he said, half-smiling, "but we have only just met and you already know my deepest secrets."

"Better than meetin' somebody and havin' them know everythin' about yah already." Rogue was disgusted. Piotr's smile widened into a grin.

"Then I guess we will get along just fine."

"Ah couldn't have said it better." And they smirked at each other, suddenly comfortable, secrets and all. And as the air turned colder, they made tracks back inside the house without another word.

**

* * *

4. Risqué Business **

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

She dreamed of Logan that night, about the last time she ever saw him alive. It was different though—in this dream, it was not an accident. Logan grabbed unto her like he _wanted_ to die.

He had his bare hands around her naked wrists, pinning her against the wall with incredible force. She struggled to fight him off, knowing the danger he was in. But by the time she had flung him off, it was already too late.

She woke up screaming, sobbing into her pillow. It was too real, too much. All she could see was his dead face, reappearing. Lingering. Haunting.

In the stillness, someone stirred, snapping her into complete consciousness. She grinded her teeth and tried to suppress another scream when she felt a hand reach out and gently stroke her back.

"Rogue?" She did not move immediately. Hearing her name, she let the voice saturate in the silence until she was ready to respond.

"Remy?" She couldn't be sure. Prodding in the darkness, she came across his shoulder, his neck. As her eyes registered to the black room, she could finally see his face, perched just several inches from hers.

She shrieked and fell away, trying to get farther from his side. "What dah hell, Remy? What _dah HELL_?" She blasted, truly mortified. He had purposely put himself in grave danger, but Remy, not unused to being admonished on the spot, smirked crookedly at her wild display.

"Am I not supposed t' see what's wrong w' y', screamin' like all Hell broke loose?"

Rogue was suddenly very embarrassed, but his simple explanation was not enough to douse her outraged flame. "Yah were too close Remy. Yah know why Ah'm bein' tracked, and yet yah just want me tah kill yah anyway!!"

"You're overreacting, Rogue," the thief replied, sounding bored, "And besides, I would've asted y' nicely if I really wanted y' t' kill me." He suddenly rose, fixing his trench coat on the way up. "But on more serious terms, I t'ink I've found y' a job."

"A job?" her voice trilled. "Already?"

Remy smirked again. "No need to be grateful, Rogue," he told her, though she had not intention of thanking him. "But they've asted t' see y' first. So if y' would please hurry…"

"Hurry?" She glanced out the window. "Sun's not even up yet. An' where's Petey?" He had been there when she fell asleep last night.

"He's already gone off to work. An' it's a funny thing, thet sun. I've heard thet in other parts of de world, it's already afternoon, but thet could easily be considered a lie." He threw a hard glance in her direction. "So let's git, Miss Rogue." His voice was no longer carefree and Rogue took this as a hint to finally follow without further argument.

- - -

They walked for what seemed like hours; by the time they finally stopped, the sun was already beginning its daily climb through the eastern sky.

Rogue cast a questioning glance in Remy's direction, but the thief merely nodded to the closest building. One look was all it took for Rogue to fly into a black, desperate rage as all her good feelings fluttered out the window.

"Dis…whorehouse…is what…yah call…_work_?" She spat, whirling around and away from her companion. Remy quickly grabbed her arm and in one fluid motion, flung her back so that she faced him again.

"It's not what y' t'ink—not completely, at least." She glowered at his pathetic explanation. "We don't have many options 'ere, Chere. Granted, it's not de first job on your list, but it's not like you'll be de one workin' w' de boys…an' it does well w' tips…" He trailed off, knowing there was absolutely no hope in making this work towards his advantage.

"Is dat all yah think about? Money an' sex?" Her voice was incredulous.

Remy suddenly darkened. "No," was all he would say.

After a tense silence, Rogue spoke, her tone considerably lower and more composed. "So Ah suppose yah have a friend workin' 'ere?" Remy's expression lightened and he smiled crookedly, glad at the chance to provide further input.

"A few actually."

This fact did not win him any favors: Rogue flashed him a dark look and his smile actually disappeared. "Ah hate yah, Remy LeBeau, Ah _really_ do." But there was something that told her to go with it, so she sucked in a string of curses and marched inside that whorehouse as Remy held the door open for her.

It was incredibly stifling when the door shut behind them. The smell of tobacco and alcohol floated heavily in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Instinctively, Rogue drew up her arms around her torso and checked her gloves. She was not thrilled to be in such a place. Remy, on the other hand, seemed right at home. He straightened his tattered trench coat and strode confidently across the room to a group of gals with nothing better to do than stand around a table, gossiping the morning away.

"Well, I'll be," said one, her face smug with recognition, "if it ain't Mister Remy LeBeau come back to trouble us."

Remy chuckled darkly. "Nice t' see y' too, Sarah."

The dame raised an eyebrow as the others giggled. "It's Sue, doll." She suddenly got up from her place and sashayed to Remy's side. Rogue could almost swear that she heard him gulp. "But I ain't offended, honey. In fact, you could even stay with me tonight." Rogue bit her lip and felt a little nauseous at the display.

The philanderer opened his mouth as if to shoot back a sarcastic remark, but decided to dodge the subject instead. "I ain't plannin' on stayin' long…just came t' see de mistress of dis place."

"Why Mister LeBeau, it doesn't seem quite like you to refuse to stay for three nights at the very least." This came from a voice belonging to a young woman standing behind the bar. As she approached the thief, Rogue noted her soft strides, her grace impeccable and unmatched as she appeared to float across the room. The difference between her and the others was undeniable. Every movement her body made, every smile she donned, even the fragrance from her perfumed skin seemed to contribute to her charming image. But the girl's eyes, watching Rogue carefully as she passed by to meet Remy, were so cold, so dead, that they were obviously set in frightening contrast to the rest of her features.

"Cherie." Remy's voice was suddenly silky, and Rogue fought the urge to scowl. One glance at the lovely lady told her that she too was struggling not to grimace. The thief promptly planted a kiss on her hand; the girl hardly noticed the gesture as her eyes saw right through the man. And then, a strange sight occurred. Perhaps Rogue wasn't in her right mind or the sun was in her eye, but when the girl moved her hand, it seemed to go right through Remy's. But Rogue could not fathom a single explanation for what she had just witnessed; in defeat, she glanced back at the girl and was surprised to find her looking straight at her with cold, empty eyes.

"Rogue?" Remy's voice jolted her backwards. The girl immediately turned her attention to the thief. "C'mere, Rogue; I want y' t' meet de lady of de house: de lovely Miss Kitty Pryde."

* * *

Call me curious...but I wonder what you think...so do a girl a favor and review! 


	7. Seven

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

**Genre**: AU/Romance/Drama

**Rated**: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

**A/N**: A little history for ya'll...parlor houses and brothels were a sure part of the Old West and I presume the East had its fair share as well. Saloon girls and dancehall girls were strictly for entertainment and any sexual favors were dealt with apart from the establishment--but they were considered no better than the whore and were looked down upon either way. That should clear up Rogue's earlier assumptions. Anything that needs further explanation? Let me know...

So how it's going with everyone? I've been on break for a bit and have gotten back on track with this story of mine. I blame writer's block for the delay, but then again, who doesn't?

* * *

**5. Wicked Tease**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1877**

She was familiar. Or at least she looked like someone Rogue had seen before. A passing glance, a face to be forgotten. But there was something in that face which yearned to be remembered…probably, it was in the eyes…

But then the girl spoke, and Rogue swore she never met this Kitty Pryde before in her life. "Well, Mister LeBeau, I don't see what all the trouble is, demanding for me out of the blue just to see a dame who is obviously not a whore." Rogue was far too astounded by the girl's mischievous grin to be offended.

"Now, _Chere_," Remy replied, his voice even and low, "you're known t' never turn a girl away, even if she's never had experience." He was working her, Rogue realized, like he did with any other girl he had to convince. Unfortunately, Kitty knew his routine by heart and duly scoffed in his face because of it.

"Don't goad me, Rems," she said, a bit abrasively, "I think the girl can speak for herself if she wants to, so go on to the bar and let us ladies chat for a spell." Rogue looked at him quickly, but there was nothing more to argue. Remy slumped away; Rogue swallowed her fear and slowly settled her gaze once again at the girl with the pink feather in her brown curls.

Kitty was watching Rogue carefully now, her eyes running over her figure, her face, her ruined hair. Rogue decided Kitty was guarded—not hostile, but not exactly gracious either. And there was a secrecy about the girl which intrigued her—an understanding, perhaps, of certain things she could not help but take into consideration.

"So what brings you to Kentucky?" Her voice was smooth and cool, the words rolling off her tongue with a hint of nonchalance. But there was also a note of impatience, something Rogue knew should have been better concealed, but had surfaced nonetheless. "Besides the weather, of course."

There would be no hiding from this one, Rogue decided. She seemed far too cunning to be deceived. "Ah take it you've heard of me, Miss Kitty." The girl cocked her head to one side in reply.

"No, Rogue, I haven't. Not from you, at least. It'll be the only story I'll believe." Her voice rang clear and sure. "I admire you coming this far with that foul Mr. LeBeau. He's a sly thing, that man, wouldn't give my two cents for his time if I didn't think he was the most detestable, amusing specimen on this planet. Give him an inch, he'll take a yard and break your heart." She then turned to Remy and shouted, "Say there, LeBeau! You better pony up for that gin, or I swan I'll have your ass."

Remy raised his bottle and poured himself another shot.

Kitty looked back at Rogue, her eyes sparkling. "Don't think I didn't warn you."

There was something so crushingly honest about the way Kitty gazed at her, so heartbreakingly trusting that Rogue was compelled to explain herself. "But miss, Ah'm 'fraid Ah wouldn't do tah your likin' in dis business. Yah see, Ah've got this…this condition, an' Ah cain't whore because I cain't touch."

Kitty then took Rogue by her sleeves and looked her straight in the eye and said, "Miss Rogue, who told you this was a parlor house?" Rogue meant to reply (though she had expected the girl to comment on the fact that she could not touch), but Kitty did not wait for an answer. She continued as-a-matter-of-factly, her voice bordering condescension. "This establishment is a saloon, probably not the most popular, but decent enough. True: most of my girls worked in that brothel down the street, but whoring is not the purpose of this business; sexual favors, by the by, are another story."

"Then what _is_ its purpose?" Rogue wanted to know. There was an uncomfortable pause as Kitty stood tall and pretty, that pink feather of hers erect as if on a true bird.

Her reply was short and sweet. "We _dance_." It made sense, actually. There was the stage that stood off to the side, covered partially with shadows. A seating area, dozens of poker tables, glass chandeliers hanging languidly from the ceiling waiting patiently for dusk. Rogue saw it in Kitty's attire as well—her sleeveless tunic, short pink skirt, and stockings to match.

"Oh dear" was all she could manage as she turned to face Kitty again who was beaming with pride.

"Don't get me wrong, Rogue; I'm not upset. There are many other things that are insulting, like the Moral Purity Movement and the fact that Andrew Johnson was our president. But you, Rogue—I like you." The mischievous smile had returned, and Rogue had no choice but to believe her. And then the girl was off, walking back to the bar and taking the bottle of gin away from Remy, who was flirting with the saloon girl by his side. Kitty promptly shooed her away and slapped the offending philanderer across his head.

"What did I tell you, toying with my girls? Last thing I need is another girl weeping at the altar and ending up dead in her bed with an ounce of laudanum to take the blame." There was a curious glint in her eye, and Rogue wondered if she was surely serious. "Go on your way, Rems, we've got it here—you aren't drunk, are you? Can you make it out the front door?" Mock concern playfully dappled her voice.

"It wasn't nothin' but gin, beb," Remy defended himself as if he had been slighted by her scorn. "But I'll be back f' y'," he continued, looking at Rogue with a sheepish grin on his face. He turned to go.

Rogue had been watching him, found that he might never come back, and bounded after him. She called his name; he stopped walking and turned to meet her eyes. Rogue could not talk, could not possibly vent all the emotions that were bubbling inside of her, waiting for the right moment to explode. But Remy had been through this before; she could see it in the way his eyes glowed red; she witnessed it in his crooked smirk as he held out his gloved hand for her to hold.

"What did I tell y', beb? Wasn't she just…charmin'?" He was so languid, so revoltingly calm, that Rogue wanted to scream and gouge at his eyes.

"Damn it, LeBeau, she wants me to dance." It was the end of the world for her; she was sure of it. Yet, Remy didn't seem to care.

"Well, beb, I'm sure y'll make a fine show…"

"Ah don't know how to dance," she interrupted, her self-doubt escaping through her voice. Remy glanced at her, his eyes, his smile—everything softened, and he put back a lock of her hair that had fallen out of place.

"Ah, _mon Cherie_," he said, his voice plaintive and soothing, "it never hurt a girl t' practice." He patted her cheek with a gloved hand, and just like that, he was gone, closing the wide oak doors behind him with the lightest –_click_-.

And in that room clad in velvet, where rows of wooden chairs and tables creaked and girls without a care in the world occupied the stage, where Remy's simple assurance and Kitty's welcome approval hung as heavy as the cigar smoke in the air, Rogue drew up her arms and could not understand how she could manage to feel so alone in a place such as this.

* * *

**6. Starving works when it Costs too much to Love (1)**

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

It was noon when Piotr returned from work, his shovel and pick draped heavily against his back as the weight of the world slumped upon his shoulders. He walked with a lonely man's gloomy gait—sweat, like tears, left filthy streaks down his face as the hot autumn sun loomed in his wake. Piotr drove his hand into his pocket, felt the slick, smooth faces of that week's earnings and tried to be satisfied with himself. There was little pride in mining, with its constant drab of being knee-high in earth all day, the coal, the danger; it was praised for being necessary, snubbed for the little that it paid.

But it wasn't about the money. Perhaps for some people who dreamed of a life beyond a mere coal mine, but Piotr worked hard and late and often because he wanted to _forget_. Those wasted summer nights he spent painting, trying to replicate _her_ face, only to lock them all in one little room so as to ignore his misery. He didn't have it in him to burn the whole project to ashes—it had failed, yes, but it certainly was not _pointless_. And just when there was a glimmer of hope, when he had finally accepted the sorrow and tucked away those sad memories in the back of his mind for good, his own Pandora's Box was revealed and it broke his heart all over again…

But he had taken care of that immediately. As soon as the Rogue had fallen asleep, he pushed back the door in its place, capturing what secrets he could before they could run rampant, bolted the lock and made sure it would stay fast this time. But what memories did escape, they haunted him like furtive ghosts, watching from the corners of his mind, wanting—waiting to be remembered. There were the recollections of wistful smiles in the pale moonlight; the phantom scent of cinnamon and mulberry dancing in her hair; whispered proclamations of undying love in the mild autumn breeze…all in vain, but like his paintings, not _pointless_. They were memories hidden carelessly like skeletons in a closet yet to be discovered. It was a shame that Rogue had to be the one to find them…

At least she had no idea what any of his paintings could possibly mean, and she would spare him that misery at least for the time being.

He raised a soiled hand to his face, trying to shade his eyes from the unrelenting brightness of the sun. Remy LeBeau was there, leaning against the well, waiting. Piotr smiled; felt his melancholy falling away like rainwater seeping through crevices. LeBeau was, as always, unexpected; his very visit was most spontaneous; but for the miner, this was a means of escape from the black and white of his simple world. His was a familiar face, a welcome distraction.

A safe diversion. Or so Piotr hoped.

Remy was singing to himself, wouldn't you know; Piotr recognized the tune but could not recall its title. The faint scent of Johnny cake, fresh and sticky from the oven, drifted effortlessly to the miner as he joined his friend's side.

"Peter, Peter," Remy crooned, his smile broadening upon seeing the miner approach, "up since dawn, tired by noon. I reckon you've worked up an appetite?" He motioned towards the shack where lunch was ready, baked and stirred and taste-tested to perfection. Remy was easily a great cook if he did not fancy stealing or philandering first.

"Ah, so you've made yourself useful," Piotr returned bemusedly, washing his hands and face with the bucket of water Remy drew up for him. The thief watched him in nostalgic silence, a small smile playing on his thin lips.

"Have t' say: I don't know how y' live, mon ami—all I could find were potatoes and old celery _I_ wouldn't even eat." There was teasing disgust in his voice as he followed Piotr into the shack.

"They make a good soup," the miner put in, but Remy shook his head in disapproval.

"Couldn' even find an ounce of liquor t' show f' y' hard work." Unlike Remy, Piotr was not particularly fond of dousing his sorrow with alcohol. He fancied a few shots here and there, but it certainly never controlled him. Piotr figured it was as contemptible as it was expensive, but naturally, he could never relate this to the thief. It was a matter of understanding, a matter which Remy undoubtedly lacked.

Remy went straight to the stove to stir his gumbo stew, letting the comment slide without reply. "I figure I'd remind y' of what y've been missin', stayin' in Kentucky an' all. So I went an' did y' a favor. Just don't ask where I got hold of de fixins." He placed a bowl in front of Piotr with a smirk on his face. "Just like ol' times, eh?"

The smirk was infectious; Piotr sported his best, most redeeming grin and laughed. "Better times," he admitted, determined to enjoy his lunch. Remy joined him across the table, slipping the Johnny cake between them.

"Seems I've been away f' too long, 'else your cupboards would be full of somethin' other than potatoes. An' _Dieu_, you've even gotten rid of all those paintings…I never thought y' would actually take me seriously about throwin' them away…" Remy stopped talking upon noticing his friend's fallen face.

Piotr tried to be engrossed with his meal, but it suddenly seemed uncharacteristically tasteless. "There's no time for that anymore. I do not bother."

Remy gazed at his friend, his red eyes burning with curiosity. "I didn't know things were so different 'round 'ere now…"

"Well, it's been two years, Remy. Things happen, people change; that's how it goes." A contemplative look crossed Piotr's face before he abruptly changed the subject. "And what of the girl? Rogue, was it? How did you meet her? And what on God's good earth did you do to your head?"

Remy grinned; decided to ignore that last question. "Ah, Rogue. My mutant wonder; the Legend's Kin. I like to think she was de one who found me. An' of all de places she wanted t' go, it was North, can y' believe it? "

Piotr was unimpressed. "I hope you won't break her heart, LeBeau. I know enough of your reputation to think you will. Of course I believe you don't intend to (though that could be debated), but it always ends that way for some reason." There was an unexpected softness in his deep voice. "She'd never forgive you," he added, for good measurement.

"Would be hard," Remy digressed, "can't touch if her life depended on it."

Piotr did not have to ask what he was talking about. "Did she leave?" The miner looked around, finally noticing her missing presence.

"Took her for a job this morning down at de edge of town as a dancer. Kitty was there and—wouldn't y' like t' know—she hired Rogue on de spot..."

Flickers of old memories flashed across Piotr's face then—a red skirt, twinkling lights like dazzling stars, a Husking Bee—all hitting him at once like a volley of rockets bursting through his mind. For a few moments he was paralyzed with shock, as if he had been shot in the gut but the pain had failed to materialize just yet. "Figured we could watch them together…" he heard Remy say. Piotr managed a weak glance, a fleeting glare at his friend before looking away.

Remy's voice faltered; he knew he had hit a chord and Piotr was crumbling into pieces because of it.

A moment of confusion and a few seconds of careful observation culminated in his dawning of realization. "I see" was Remy's simple response. "Thet would explain de potatoes." It would explain more than just that. Surely he could see the sunken shadows under Piotr's eyes, how noticeably thinner and irritable his friend had become, and the paintings—once adorning every wall in the house, now torn off their perches and locked away in a miserable, desperate attempt to make it all go away…

He saw it; he knew it. Things had changed.

And in that moment of uncomfortable silence between them, Remy sat perturbed, Piotr seething. And the meal went cold; the bread no longer appetizing.

"Rogue was hired, eh?" This from Piotr, through clenched teeth. Remy nodded, still stunned. And then in a voice full of remorse and admiration: "Katya was always a wonderful dancer. Taught me a thing or two; I am sure she can do it again with someone less clumsy."

There was nothing quite like a broken heart. It was sickening, disturbing; Remy couldn't stand it. "_Merde_, I need a beer," he mumbled, and there was malice in his voice. "I need a _fuckin'_ beer." He gazed across the table, his eyes glowing a violent red. And then he was off, talking a mile a minute. "I never thought she would hurt y'…it wasn't supposed t' be like thet…I should've stayed, but things were swell, I thought, maybe f' once they would stay thet way…"

The thief looked down at his hands and didn't know what else to say.

"Forget it, Remy," Piotr returned, trying to be consoling when the world was collapsing all around him. "_Davno_—it was a long time ago."

"An' y' juss accepted it?" Remy's voice was incredulous. "Shook hands, pretended nothin' ever happened?" Piotr felt a prick of anger at the thief's disbelieving tone, but decided to let it go. He knew very well Remy LeBeau could not possibly understand how it was to be so miserable about love—but of course he would not have just accepted a woman's denial; Remy LeBeau would have done something about it. _He_ would have never allowed himself to become so pathetically lovesick and sullen over unrequited love; _he_ would have accepted the challenge, stepped up to the plate, given it his best to get the girl. And he always got the girl, didn't he? They didn't call him philanderer for nothing, that was for sure.

Piotr knew this and hated Remy LeBeau as much as admired him for his natural charm, his easy charisma—something the miner would always want and never have.

And so, in defeat, Piotr replied: "I tried, but we both knew it would not have worked." There was curious conviction in his words, as if he was trying to believe it himself.

"If I had known, I would've taken y' out of Kentucky w' me. Dammit, Petey—how could y' juss let her get away?" That disbelieving tone had surfaced again.

Piotr shot him a glare. "I let her _go_. There is a difference."

But Remy went on. "I talked t' her; she never once mentioned y'…I should've asked. I should've _known_. An' now Rogue's workin' f' _her_…"

He broke off; Remy was suddenly aware that he was only making matters worse. The last thing Piotr needed was his sympathy.

"_Desole_, Petey. I didn't mean t'—"

"It's fine, Remy. You were right about her all along, you know."

"_Oui_, but I didn't _want_ t' be right…"

Piotr looked out the window, his face blank, expressionless. "It's fine," he repeated, his voice even. "You just worry about Rogue now. She's probably having a fine time learning those steps on stage." There was a tone of forced indifference in his voice, probably to conceal his concern for the girl. He raked a trembling hand through his dark hair and grunted. "Gracious God, now _I_ need a beer." And he half-grimaced into his bowl of gumbo and slowly—methodically began to eat again.

_Chase the possum, chase the coon,_

_Chase the pretty girl 'round the room._

_How ya'll swap and how'll ya trade—_

_This pretty girl for that old maid?_

_Here comes a lass I once did know_

_Swing her hard and let her go. _(2)

* * *

**7. Lance Alvers's Girl**

**Durham, Kentucky: 1875**

Any other Friday night, Piotr Rasputin would have been sound asleep after a long day of hard work or playing solitaire with a cup of coffee to keep him company, but this Friday night was undoubtedly different for Remy LeBeau had been catching on to his lonely ways and had decided to do the man a favor. He had been piping about going to the Durham Husking Bee at the end of the month, and Piotr agreed only because he thought Remy would forget and time would settle him down, but then that Friday rolled along and Remy showed up at his shack sporting his best Stetson, looking good enough to kill, and Piotr knew there was no way out of this one.

"Piotr Rasputin," the thief huffed, as they walked down the dusty road to Durham, "I've been workin' dat damn mine with y' for two months now, an' there ain't an ounce of good in pentin' up inside dat shack of yours every weekend while there's so much to do in town."

"I don't see what is so wrong about enjoying time by myself," Piotr argued. But Remy would have none of it.

"It's a shame, Petey—all those pretty girls y' could have if you'd juss introduce yourself f' once…"

"Now really, Remy…"

"I'm not sayin' y' need a girl, but being w' one could do y' some good. An' all y' got t' do is dance."

Piotr bowed his head so low, his chin was grazing his collar. "You know I can't dance. You couldn't teach me the two-step if you had all month to do it." That, and the fact that his Russian accent was far from discreet.

"Well of course not, with dat attitude of yours we'd never git anywhere. Y' juss wait—" A humorous red glint flashed through Remy's eyes—"Y' never know; reckon y' could be better than y' think."

They had reached the outskirts of Durham; lamplights flickered invitingly in the distance. A lively melody was being played somewhere below; Piotr could see campfires glowing throughout the area. The dancing itself was taking place outside in the horses' corral as old rusty signs directed the crowd into the husking bee. There were men standing by the entrance, decked out as dudes in cowboy leggings, Stetsons, and caps. And the ladies wore checkered dresses in a cocktail of different colors, showing off baubles and bows all over their clothes.

Piotr glanced around once and shoved his hands into his pockets. Solitaire never looked so good right about now.

Remy LeBeau lackadaisically pulled down his hat and patted his friend's shoulder. With eyes like his, there wasn't a doubt that people were fixing to run him out on a rail in no time, but Remy wasn't one to be harassed by things he could not help. Instead, he liked to rub it in people's faces. "Now remember, Petey, smile wide; no one likes a grump; stand tall but not too tall—can't afford to be taken as a stuffed shirt, can y'?—and by all means _relax_. It's your night off. Enjoy it." Piotr, feigning sarcasm, promised he would.

It was then that Remy LeBeau noticed the couple staring at them from across the way. Piotr followed the philanderer's gaze, wondering what was so important in those two, watching them the way they did. Piotr saw the girl first with a pink ribbon in her mouse-brown curls and long pleated skirt. She was clinging to her partner's arm, trying to keep up with his wide gait. As they approached, Piotr could see the man's face crinkled by his crooked smirk as he held out a hand for Remy to grab.

"Say, stranger, haven't I seen the likes of you before?" the man asked in mock bravado. Remy glanced at him sideways and his hostile curiosity melted immediately into plain surprise.

"Lance Alvers, is thet y'? Well I'll be! How long's it been…almost a year?" He gave Lance's hand a hard shake.

The man seemed equally cheerful as he turned his attention to the girl on his arm. "Lookit Remy LeBeau, darling, up to his reckless ways as always. You must be wanted everywhere but Durham by now, Mr. LeBeau."

"Well, y' know how it goes, Alvers," Remy grinned, touching the brim of his Stetson. "How's travelin' with de Gang goin'?" Apparently it was no secret between friends. Piotr himself had heard of the Brotherhood Gang, but took it as just a story; another local American legend. He never thought he would actually see one of them up close and personal.

Lance, who actually reveled in being an infamous, wanted bandit, beamed. "Jumped two trains just last week. Came here to celebrate with my lovely miss." He gave his lady a quick kiss on the cheek. "You remember Kitty, doncha Rems?"

Remy grinned, eyeing the girl indulgently. "I sure do. And how is Miss Pryde tonight?"

The girl smiled graciously. "A lil' out of place, but doing fine, thank you," she answered politely. She casually turned her attention to Piotr who was standing in the shadows behind the philanderer. "Who's your friend?" Her voice was friendly enough, and she cocked her head to the side to try and see him better.

Lance gazed at Piotr for the first time and a look of mistrust crossed his clean-shaven face. Remy noticed and promptly introduce his friend.

"Petey Rasputin. We work in de same mine together." There was a look of patronizing approval on Lance's face; Piotr tried not to appear dismayed at the sight.

"Ah. Then welcome, Mister. Name's Lance Alvers—used to work with Mr. LeBeau down in Texas before we went our separate ways." He made it sound simple, becoming a bandit and all. "And this—" He nodded his head to the girl beside him—"is Kitty Pryde. She stays in Kentucky for now, but we hope to move to California soon." His hand shake was warm, at least. Piotr forced a smile and took his greeting lightly. "I admire a hard working man such as yourself, Petey," Lance continued, a note of disdain in his voice. "Always welcome contributors to this country." And then he laughed because he knew his life was more thrilling—better even, with guns and sheriffs and iron horses; one that didn't fill your lungs with confounded coal dust by the end of the day.

Piotr gave Remy a heated glance and the thief took it as a chance to leave. He wished the couple a nice night and set off toward the corral with Piotr by his side, who was huffing with obvious contempt.

Remy was curious of his opinion, as always. "So thet was Lance Alvers f' y'…part of de Brotherhood Gang…whaddya think, Petey?" Piotr was not one to cherish first impressions, but this one he found irritating and repulsive. But of course he didn't say so.

"Seems all right," he lied through his teeth. Remy barked out a laugh.

"Seems mighty _rich_, if y' ask me. But such a waste; poor devil, got himself shackled to a girl so soon, right in de prime of his life." The miner had to disagree with that one. Sure Lance was shackled, but at least he had himself a pretty and patient girl…Piotr would have considered him a lucky man. But he didn't mention that either. "Seems I could've had thet life once…wouldn't y', Petey? Swindling and scaring people out of they's money; would've been easy as pie…"

"Knowing you, Remy," Piotr told him, "you'd not only do that, but you'd rob that Gang blind and run away with the Scarlet Witch while you're at it."

Remy, who adored the Scarlet Witch, laughed and thumped his friend on the shoulder, completely amused at the prospect. "Reckon I would; I sure as hell would!"

---

Piotr was not one to give up easily. But after stepping on all his partners' feet, failing to keep time to every square dancing song, and nearly pummeling the banjo player on his way out, the miner decided to call it a night. Remy LeBeau himself could not be found; last Piotr saw of him was chasing around a pretty brunette who seemed delighted at his attention. Just as well, Piotr figured angrily, the philanderer would be too busy to care about how the miner turned out to be a bustling, flagrant embarrassment. And what a fine dancing disaster he was—it would do him just as well to sit out for good.

Damn that Remy for not noticing his spite for the pastime or the fact that he undoubtedly possessed two left feet. Dancing, indeed! Piotr would have rather eaten his shirt.

The miner calmly approached the miss behind the counter and ordered a peach tea—no ice please—and started off into the shadows where he belonged.

In the distance, a fiddle whined as the music carried on without him. Good riddance, the miner sullenly thought, taking a long sip of his drink. The smell of candied apples and Johnny cake drifted aimlessly in the air as peals of laughter burst through the otherwise calm atmosphere; it was pleasant, but not entirely—Piotr had an unnerving feeling of someone watching him from behind. He looked around and found Lance Alvers's girl sitting on a bale of hay across from him, a pensive smile on her pale face. When she was sure she had caught his eye, the girl spoke up.

"Come to drown your sorrows, sir?" He could see her better in the light of the fire and found her pretty in her pink frock and laced boots, her blue eyes sparkling with moonlight and good humor.

But even his astonishment could not replace the humiliation of finding he had himself an audience this entire time. "So you have been watching me?" he grimaced, gazing into the fire and wondering if there was any justice left in the world.

The girl was agonizingly polite. "More of your display that just yourself, I'm afraid." There was a hint of playful remorse in her voice. "I'm curious though: are you trying to be an understudy to that foul philanderer LeBeau or are you really that beguiling towards women?"

Piotr held his drink in mid-air to his lips, cautious yet intrigued by her sarcasm. He caught a whiff of her cinnamon and mulberry scent as the wind blew through her curls. "What is it to you anyway? Can not a miner have his cake and enjoy it once in awhile?" He cringed slightly; he was beginning to sound more like the philanderer than he liked.

The girl saw that he was slighted and attempted to apologize. "I didn't mean to offend you, sir, but I couldn't help watching…" She broke off, and Piotr could see the girl was trying to keep from grinning. "I don't suppose it was Remy's idea for you to be here?"

"This…is true," he admitted. The girl nodded sympathetically.

"Then we're in the same boat." She offered the empty space next to her. "Husking bees, for Land's Sake; I wouldn't be here if they offered me all the corn in the world. Then again, I never cared much for corn anyway." She gazed at Piotr curiously as he joined her side. "So what did Remy do to get you here? Fix you a date? Offered you a couple dollars? Maybe it was a bet…"

Piotr gazed at the girl, deeply astounded. He couldn't think for the life of him why she wanted to waste her time on such a clumsy _muzhchina, _a hopeless case like himself. Perhaps it was for the sake of waiting, a chance to pass the time. And so the miner answered, "It seemed fun at the time." An almost lie. "Of course, if I had known what a horrible mistake it was…" He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly aware of his accent thickening. He coughed, half-chuckled at himself, and took a long sip from his tea.

The girl did not seem to notice; her thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. "This is the first time I've seen Lance in two weeks…he's always away, riding trains and such, so when he comes back, he always want to enjoy himself."

"Even if that means attending a Husking Bee?" Piotr glanced at her sideways, almost missing the disappointment that crossed her face. But she recovered gracefully, pulling her lips in a smile so wide, Piotr wondered if he had seen correctly.

"I guess I've made it sound like a hassle," she told the miner, her eyes glistening mysteriously. Piotr found himself gazing at the girl for a little longer than necessary; he abruptly turned away just as Kitty looked up. "Oh dear, there's my Lance now…seems he's just all liquored up and eager to wake snakes…" She stood up; Piotr followed suit. "I should go. Things tend to get ugly."

Piotr stammered out his farewell, flubbing it hopelessly with his thick accent. "It was n-nice talking with you…Miss…" Already, he liked her better than that fiend she undoubtedly loved.

The girl seemed grateful. "Thanks for the company." She started walking away and Piotr watched silently after her.

"You know, Petey," the girl suddenly piped, turning back around to face him, "I didn't think so at first, but you've proven me wrong, sir." A mischievous grin appeared on her lips. "You really _are_ beguiling." And then she was off, leaving him in a blur of pink and cinnamon and mulberry and running to her Lance so fast, Piotr swore she was flying.

* * *

Footnotes: 

(1) Taken from Fiona Apple's Paper Bag

(2) Quoted from an old square dancing tune, found in Rutter's

* * *

Review! Review! Review! (continues shameless prattling) 


	8. Eight

_Ariesque presents_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

**Genre**: AU/Romance/Drama

**Rated**: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

**A/N:** It's been awhile, folks, and I'm disappointed that I can't whip out my stories super-fast like some people, but I guess that's the price for taking too many units over summer :) This chapter turned out longer than I wanted--I blame the fact that I was on a roll after several weeks of writer's block and got a little carried away. Okay, **a** **lot** carried away. And it's heavier than I intended--angsty and cynical and sad. I didn't mean to be so depressing, but I wanted to develop my characters a little more;) Any comments or curses will be gladly welcomed, especially as reviews :P. Enjoy! (Em, this is for you)

* * *

**8. Gossip Girls**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1877**

It was a hard week, but it went by quickly. They had wrapped up practice an hour early and some of the girls had gone down the street for the afternoon, while others straggled behind at the saloon, drinking old man whiskey and talking over today's daily news.

Rogue was sitting by herself at one of the poker tables away from the other girls, cozy with a glass of water on ice, when a certain blonde with clever blue eyes walked by and pulled over a chair.

"Mind if I join you." It wasn't a request. She took a seat by Rogue's side and carefully unfolded the newspaper from under her arm. Rogue recognized the girl as the fifth dancer in her line, the one next to the gal called Amara. She was tall and leggy and a good kicker who had a penchant for beer and rugged men; she was known to be brassy and wrathy when she was drunk, flighty and impatient otherwise. Rogue had tried her best to avoid her, obviously a potential trouble, but apparently the blonde had other plans.

"Tabitha Smith," she said, taking Rogue's gloved hand into her own and giving it a prompt shake. "Kitty said you were new around here. Came up all the way from Mississippi." She popped in some chewing gum and sat back in her chair. "Heard you're performing tomorrow night."

Rogue flustered. "Ah reckon so, though Ah thought it was a little soon…"

"Naw, you're all right. I've seen girls who couldn't even tap a foot on time." She glanced at Rogue and grinned. "I'll be doing your hair and make-up; don't worry, I can put up a painted face once in awhile. Done it for two years now. Might even fix those poor bangs of yours." Her grin was so wide, it looked painful. Rogue tried not to notice and tugged at her gloves instead.

"So," Tabitha suddenly said, "what's your secret?"

Rogue glanced at her, genuinely surprised. "Secret?" She felt her heart plummet into her stomach and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick.

"I'd hate like the devil to think you haven't got one, coming all the way from Mississippi without a scratch on you?" Rogue glanced into her water glass and wondered if she had to explain her mutation to every person she met. "How'd you do it, Rogue? How'd you get the thief attached?"

This threw Rogue a little. "Attached?"

"Practically smitten with you, darling," Tabitha said admiringly. Rogue, trying to recover from shock, was stumbling out a response.

"O-Oh, no, yah got it all wrong, Miss…"

"There's no need to be shy about it; everyone can see it as plain as day."

"But it ain't like dat." Rogue was so horrified, she actually began to laugh. "It ain't like dat at all."

"What do you take me for, some kind of idiot?" Tabitha was indignant. "I know Remy LeBeau, doll. Every damn girl in this country at least has heard of his name and he ain't never been with any ol' dame for as long as he could use her—" She paused, checking to see if Rogue was paying attention— "Then again, if you had known that, you wouldn't be with him, would you?"

"Ah think Ah'm smarter than dat, thank yah," Rogue spat, who had stopped laughing and was clearly sick of the topic. Tabitha noticed her growing contempt and was undoubtedly pleased.

"Don't worry, doll. It ain't the first romance to hit this saloon. I mean, some men come and go while others become favorites of several girls. Sometimes they trick us into thinking it could be _love_." She said the word with scorn. "That's where you get the stories you hear from these red-light districts; there's Calamity Jane and her whiskey, Madame Mustache who done killed her golddigger husband, and our own Kitty Pryde with her stinking gingersnaps…"

"Gingersnaps?" Rogue cocked her head in obvious curiosity.

Tabby looked grim. "Gingersnaps. She's got 'em hidden away in her room in places I can't even begin to find. They're worse than being addicted to the bottle—at least the bottle we could all understand. But cookies?" Tabitha shook her head sadly. "Of course, she only eats 'em when she's stressed out. And you know why she binges, doncha?" A glimmer of malice appeared in her eyes.

Rogue shook her head: no, she had no clue.

"Because she was in _love_." There was that scorn in her voice again. "And I just can't take it; I swear, someday Kitty Pryde will eat Kentucky clean out of gingersnaps and then she'll hafta start making batches of them herself. Next thing you know, she's found dead after scarfing down all the cookies she baked out of desperation, leaving me to arrange her dad-blaming funeral."

"Aw, Miss Smith, yah don't really believe gingersnaps will actually kill her?" Rogue had to admit she _was_ a little amused at the prospect.

"You sure are wet behind the ears, doll," Tabby grinned, "'else you'd know Miss Pryde couldn't cook to save her soul. Figure she could keel over after eating the entire batch she made herself."

As if the devil himself had spoken, Kitty Pryde came by, raising an eyebrow at the chuckling Rogue. "So you've made acquaintances. How unfortunate." She playfully sneered at the blonde, her blue eyes twinkling with laughter. "Tabitha Smith has such a big mouth around here. Entertaining, maybe, but a big mouth all the same."

"C'mon Kitty—I think the girl has a right to learn _something_ about you. I mean, God forbid she gets ahold of your muffins…"

"That was a one time deal, Tabby," the dancer replied in irritation, but there was smile on her pretty face. "Besides, I never liked muffins to begin with."

"And after your experiment, nobody else liked them either."

"You don't need to harass my poor muffins just because they tasted _different_." Kitty gazed at Rogue, and there was mischief on her face. "So, Rogue, when's the _gentleman_ coming to get you?"

"Now, Miss Kitty," the girl returned in a low voice, giving the dancer a harsh glare, "Ah'm not smitten with any man, yah hear? Especially with dah likes of dat horrible Remy LeBeau."

Kitty was surprised, but she laughed it off and exchanged looks with Tabitha. "Oh, so you've heard something about that. Hmm. Well, he _is_ a fine looking young man and there isn't anything quite like red eyes…"

"Chiseled face, crooked grin; just the thought of it makes me swoon," Tabitha razzed as Rogue shifted awkwardly in her seat, trying to seem as if she never noticed Remy's attractive, perfectly proportioned good looks before. "A genuine heartthrob if you ask me. No wonder the ladies are jealous of you."

"Mmm-hmm." Kitty held back a laugh. "I've seen the way they look at him; you better watch that man, Rogue. He tends to stray, but then again, he's already followed you this far…He's probably completely head-over-heels with you by now."

"Like hell he is," Rogue hissed, giving them both a dirty glare. "How many times do Ah have tah tell yah people: it ain't like dat!"

"Then what is it, exactly?" Tabitha had to ask. "Have you ever wondered, even for a moment, why he's come all the way up here with you anyway?"

Rogue looked down at the table and knew she was caught. Luckily, Tabitha wasn't focusing her scorn on just the newcomer. "Why, I'd say the same thing to Kitty every time she came in complaining about her Lance being away for months at a time. It just about killed her—poor thing—but lookit her now; nothing could be more peart."

"Tabby," Kitty whined, her eyes narrowed into slits, "Don't give yourself too much credit…"

"Well, it's the truth, doll. Reckon you'd still be in that room of yours, eating every gingersnap you could get your pretty hands on…and what for? Because of love? Because you couldn't see how good you got it? I tell you, Rogue, you've got a swell one in your hands and there ain't any point in just letting him get away, right Kitty? Kitty?"

But Kitty didn't answer. Rogue glanced at the girl and noticed for the first time since she had known her, Kitty had nothing to say. To be fair, Kitty forced herself a grin but there was hesitation in her eyes, as if she was considering replying at all.

"I think I will go on and change," she said, standing up. It was clearly an excuse to leave, but nobody dared accuse her. "I should...see you girls tomorrow then." Her exit was clumsy, but Kitty went on her way without once looking back. Rogue stared after her, wanting so bad to ask Tabitha what had gone wrong, but dreading hearing the truth all the same.

* * *

**9. Gingersnaps**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1876**

There was a reason behind those gingersnaps, of course; Kitty Pryde took to eating them all at once only to gag them back up again with the sheer intent on making herself feel better. It was her instant gratification; the only thing she thought she could control. And when Tabitha found out what she was doing with all those cookies, she cleaned out Kitty's room herself, ranting and raving about how Kitty was going to _kill_ herself someday but not if Tabitha could do something about it.

Her concern was appreciated, but not enough; Kitty had hoped something—somehow would bring Lance back to Kentucky more often. He was gone every week now, his absence growing longer and unbearable to the point where Kitty had stopped eating altogether. But it wasn't about the weight or about being stick-thin, for it wasn't fashionable to be so skinny and seem so sickly back in the day. As she told Tabitha many times, she just lost her appetite; eating became more of a chore than a habit. But really, it was only another excuse to focus on something other than her Brotherhood boyfriend, riding the rails in the Wild West while she wasted away in Lonesome Kentucky with only her dancing routines to keep her busy. She tried other ways to forget her misery; that stint with cooking, for example, and sometimes practicing her powers around the room. But deep down, Kitty knew she had made a mistake by running away. And the thing was, she just didn't know how to make things right again. Her heart was just as sad as it had been the first day Lance left her in Kentucky. She cried herself to sleep every night for a good month.

Alvers had been away for three weeks now, and Kitty assumed it would be longer; Lance had written his weekly telegram and she received it today; it was the only thing she could count on, his saving grace, and she read it to herself with growing disdain:_ Stuck in Arizona. Chased by cowboys. Won't make it this week; good luck on Friday. _

She could kill him, she could; but by the way things were going, she was already set on killing herself every time she stuck her finger down her throat, a kind of masochistic relief that came and went with every purge. And she could blame him for everything, of course; she did not owe him a thing. But things were better when he was there, when he was tangible and holding her tight as he dropped his head close to hers for a kiss. Kitty could almost see him now, his steely gray eyes sparkling strangely in the lamplight; his mouth pulled in the most sardonic, rebellious smirk any man could manage as he mussed her hair just to get her upset... She was miserable with missing him and it frightened her that soon she might forget him altogether—or worse: he would eventually forget _her_. The very thought made her want to hurl just so she didn't have to dwell on it.

It was Friday night and the saloon was alive with carefree laughter and familiar melodies. Kitty could hear the professor tickling the keys from the upper threshes of her room, practicing the last stanzas before the last curtain call. She was supposed to be getting dressed for the performances later that evening, but Lance's telegram had upset her. It was Tabitha who pulled Kitty back into reality as she came running into the room, fully dressed and face made up, explaining her instrusion as a strong urgency to find face powder.

She carried a scent of lilac perfume and smoldering rage; Kitty found it curiously comforting.

"I've had it, Kit, I have just had it with Jerry and his picking fights and flirting with other women." Jerry was a rugged, handsome fellow with black hair and black eyes who took to Tabby as most men took to danger—with a sort of carefree enthusiasm for the thrill of life; a married man that Tabitha considered seducing on a whim. In the dim lamplight, Kitty could see the black and indigo hues which colored Tabitha's left eye. Clearly, it was another ugly bruise she could not hide. "I got it in me to break up with that scalawag and he throws this sockdologer at me…but I was quick and able to bomb his britches off. Hopefully I singed his crotch but I couldn't stay to make sure…" She was smiling through the mirror, clearly pleased with herself, but that all changed when Tabitha looked over and noticed Kitty's reflection gazing sadly back at her.

"Kit, you all right?" She turned slowly, cautiously. The atmosphere of the room changed; it was suddenly very stuffy and very frightening, as though they had been locked into a wide chest with no way out. "You look paler than death, doll. Something happen?"

"Tuckered out, I reckon," was Kitty's response. She got up from her bed and placed her brasserie around her torso. "Lance wrote again. He won't be able to make it tonight. And I just went down to the brothel…but nobody would see me…" She didn't include that he hadn't shown for the last three weeks now or that she was not in the mood to recruit anyone today. But Tabitha was good enough not to ask.

"Ah, 'splains a lot. Here," she offered, taking the strings that crossed Kitty's brasserie and tightening them for her. Tabitha had done the task a million times before; only now did she notice how frail and thin the girl seemed, as if the corset was the only thing left holding her up. "You know, you don't need to bother with that brothel if they don't want you. It ain't safe anyways."

Kitty stepped away as soon as Tabitha was finished tying the last knot. She did not mention it was Tabitha herself she found two weeks ago in that very brothel, looking lost with herself, angry at her father, and covered with ugly bruises that seemed too severe to be caused by a mere fall down the stairs.

There was a stale silence that followed; it settled between the girls as Kitty put on her black tunic and hastily fixed up her hair with a red feather.

But then Tabitha's voice rang clear through the room: "Have you eaten today?" Apparently the blonde was catching on to Kitty's strange habits. But the dancer was used to the question and had gotten better at lying about it.

"Of course," she replied shortly, without even the slightest cringe as she applied a bit of rouge to her cheeks. It was actually her third day without a bite to eat, but besides the cranky rumbling in her middle, she felt perfectly fine.

Tabitha was not immediately moved. "Well, I've got some dodgers in my room, doll. Seems like you're fading away every time I see you."

"I'm not just bones and skin, Tabby." Not yet, at least.

"Maybe you should sit tonight out, doll," Tabby suggested. "You don't look so well…"

"I feel fine," Kitty said, so convincingly she almost believed herself. "I am moving, aren't I? And it's not like we can rethink our configurations right now."

"It isn't about the dancing, Kitty." She sounded worried and it annoyed Kitty enough to grit her teeth.

"It isn't about eating, either." She finished touching up her face and turned around to scowl at Tabitha. "And we're going to be late if we don't get down there now."

Stepping out of the room and down the corridor, Kitty was hit with the familiar stench of cigar smoke mixed with expensive whiskey; she heard the professor at the piano, winding up another of his renditions of "Little Brown Jug." Peals of laughter rang clear against the shot glasses, echoing into the empty hall as Kitty and Tabitha peered over the staircase railing, looking at the throng of people already streaming into the floor below. The saloon was as fine and as lively as ever, with twinkling lights and velvet curtains, spinning roulette tables and creaking barstools. Kitty smiled. She had always loved the night life and its patrons, flocking in and out and drinking and talking into the wee hours of the morning. She could listen to vulgar conversations and learn about gambling and counting cards; it was only at night that she could forget about not eating and pleasing Tabitha if only to stamp out that painful ache in her heart from missing Lance all day.

Maddie, who was in charge of the place, had been kind enough to offer her the job, but Kitty knew she was looking for someone to take over the business when the time came (which turned out sooner than Maddie hoped). Kitty had taken to dancing with a sort of reluctance—with her powers, it was a hard gamble to take the job, but it paid off. She didn't mind the risqué undertones in the choreography, the sly glances the patrons paid her way, or even the fact that some (but not all) girls usually followed men they hardly met down to the corner brothel. Flirting, she learned, made commission and Kitty was very good at flirting when she wanted to be. Everyone knew there was money in the profession; it was busy yet exciting, defiling yet promising. And that was all it was about, really; she and every other girl in that saloon were in it for the money.

She had compromised with Alvers, you see; Kitty would make enough for the trip to take them to California and Lance would come up with the rest. Of course, whatever she earned on the side was hers to keep, just as long as she kept up her half of the agreement. Perhaps by now Lance could have covered both their shares just by robbing all those trains in the past few months, but Kitty was not one to bring up money matters. She would stick with this deal; in that way, she would not owe him anything.

Tabitha was pointing out the Usuals: Slow Joe and Curt Kyle each with their familiar green bowlers and devilish grins, Mad Ted who vowed to set fire to the place because Maddie herself turned him down two years before, and Fancy Pat who slipped Kitty a double eagle last time he asked for a dance from the best girl in the house.

"Well, I'll be," Tabitha sighed, a note of longing in her dusky voice, "if it ain't Remy LeBeau himself." Kitty glanced over and saw the thief's brown Stetson in plain view. He could well be a patron of Maddie's himself if it weren't for the fact that he liked to slip in and out of every city he ever graced. She figured it was only a matter of time before he left Durham for good. First time they met, Remy LeBeau was just about finishing a poker game, when he made the mistake of grabbing Kitty by the skirt and planting a sloppy kiss on her pretty mouth. She socked him good and dowsed him with his glass of whiskey; Remy was so captivated that he swung by the next day to see her with a pocket full of posies and apologies and they became friends ever since.

Tabitha was well aware of this story and was only sorry she had missed it, but that was not quite on her mind at the moment. "And he's brought along a friend."

And so he had; Kitty recognized Peter Rasputin right off the bat. He looked better in the light, she noticed, with his dark hair and face drawn taut. He had dusted down and washed for the occasion; Kitty noticed his scrubbed boots and smirked at his nervous gait; apprehension and suspicion deepening his brow as he looked around. His tenseness was incredible and a little foolish; he blundered into things as if he were trying (and failing) to walk in a perfectly straight line. Kitty felt a little sorry for the man; he was probably dragged here by LeBeau against his wishes, no doubt. Perhaps he would be a good sport like at the Husking Bee and try to dance again. But she could almost see his livid frustration for being so clumsy, his angry disapproval at himself as his self-worth shriveled up and died before the night was even over.

Tabitha seemed to be thinking the same thoughts as Kitty. "Poor fellow. Doesn't seem to like it here already. Just hope he doesn't ask us to dance; wouldn't that be a _disaster_?" She gave Kitty a quick wink and hurried down the stairs, her red skirt flying out behind her. Kitty turned back just in time to see the man crash into a chair unfortunately in his way, and decided it best to leave, not wanting to see anymore of Petey's wretched, blundering display, but smiling all the more because of it.

* * *

**10. Dancing Partners**

**Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

Remy had promised her back by four the next day, but Rogue would have rather stayed behind, feeling Tabitha's eyes boring into her back as she slipped out of Maddie's after the philanderer who casually tipped his hat over his eyes and started whistling to himself. He seemed oblivious to the fact that she was lagging behind, farther than her usual two feet distance between them.

Her legs were leaden and her eyes kept assaulting the back of Remy's head with a kind of incredulous disbelief. She could not pinpoint what exactly she despised about the man, but Rogue was definitely sure she despised him.

"Why is it," she heard him suddenly say, "dat y' won't meet my eyes today, Rogue? Somethin' de matter?" He had stopped to gaze at her as though he were reading her thoughts. Rogue tried not to look guilty, but was having trouble meeting his eyes.

"Wrong?" she repeated, stunned that he actually took notice. She stammered out her response. "W-Well, dah girls were talkin' today…"

"An'?" He sounded trifled and unconcerned, but was walking slower and kept throwing speculative glances over his shoulder.

"A-And they think…they actually think yah could like me." She gave him her most disgusted face and screwed up her nose to further convey her dislike of the subject. "Don't dat beat dah Dutch, Mister LeBeau?" For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"An' if it's true?"

Rogue stopped walking; it took Remy a few steps forward to realize she had paused.

"True?" Her voice cracked and she dissolved in a fit of nervous laughter, not knowing what else to do.

"What are you? Some goddamn parrot?" He sounded annoyed but there was a smile on his face. "What's it t' y' if I like y'?"

"Dat's real funny, LeBeau. Yah might fool them ladies at dah bar, but Ah think Ah should know better…an' could do better, thanks."

Remy cocked his head and grinned crookedly. "It bothers y' thet I like y'?" He took a step towards Rogue. "I mean, it's never occurred t' y' why I've come this far—" His voice was unusually silky; he took another step and Rogue suddenly realized he was coming _straight at her_. "Jumped off trains, looked up old acquaintances—" He was suddenly in front of Rogue, gazing down into her giant, frightened eyes— "Did y' ever think I could actually like y' face, y' hair, y' _smell_…"

"_GET AWAY FROM ME!"_ Rogue jumped back, knowing for certain he was pulling her chain. She was flailing her arms wildly as if to rid herself of Remy's presence. The thief laughed softly to himself, gazing at her with a malicious gleam in his glowing red eyes.

"Of course," he said. "I like y', Rogue. But I'm not _stupid_." He started walking again and Rogue watched him for a few seconds, not understanding what had just happened. Then she realized how far ahead he had gotten and had to run to keep up.

They reached Piotr's shack in no time and found the miner sitting in his kitchen, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He peered curiously from Remy to Rogue, both seeming to circle each other like wary cats around the kitchen table. "So," he finally muttered, turning a page, "practice went well?"

"It's all raht," Rogue replied, keeping her eyes on Remy, just in case he planned to pull another heinous stunt. The thief preoccupied himself with pouring a cup of Joe from the pot. "Figure as long as nobody asks me tah dance, Ah'll be fahne."

"But it's pathetic, not having a partner," Remy put in, taking a seat opposite Piotr. "What's the point of being a dancer then? I mean, I might ask y' t' dance, but don't blame me if I don't tip y'."

"Yah know," Rogue said, venom in her voice, "Ah think Ah can get along juss fahne without being pitied by _yah_. Not every girl fancies dancin' with yah." She looked quickly at Piotr who was gazing at his paper without reading it. "Piotr," she said, and her voice had lightened considerably, "yah wouldn't mind dancin' w' me tomorrow night, would yah?"

Remy cursed, having spilled hot coffee all over his forearms. Apparently, he was not expecting this.

"It'll juss be one dance and yah wouldn't need tah tip me," Rogue persisted, her voice pleading, "An' they don't last dat long anyway…"

All eyes were on Piotr then, who continued to remain expressionless as he put down his paper. Every muscle in his face seemed to tense at this request; he refused to look at her, but Rogue saw his quiet, conflicted deliberation all the same. Remy had meanwhile caught Rogue's eye and was glaring daggers at the girl, but before Rogue could ask what she did wrong, Piotr grunted.

His voice was cold and firm when he finally spoke. "I see no reason why not. Though I should warn you: I never mastered my footing."

Rogue swept down on Piotr for a quick yet gracious hug and gave a triumphant glare at Remy who had managed to spill more coffee on himself and was now staring at Piotr with a look of mingled surprise and contempt.

But Piotr did not notice—he simply went back to his paper as if nothing spectacular had happened, and calmly took up where he left off.

* * *

**11. Ain't Safe for Mutants**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1876**

The night had gone well—Kitty was cheered by the applause and the cat calls from the audience after every performance. LeBeau himself winked at Kitty and approached Tabitha to praise her kicks who went red and blubbered out her thanks, instantly charmed. But Kitty was not in any mood to stay and mingle with the crowd tonight. She was feeling rather dizzy with all the excitement (or so she willed herself to believe) and thought it best to turn in. The calm darkness from the second floor beckoned and Kitty wanted nothing more than to retreat from the clatter and chatter of the saloon and curl up in the lonely comfort of her room. She quickly told Tabitha she was going to bed and hurried off towards the stairs.

She took a last glance around and stopped dead in her tracks upon seeing Rasputin sitting at the bar, turning over a bottle between his large hands, studying its label and then giving it back to the bartender. He looked very busy and very serious; Kitty found it amusing that he insisted on fussing over alcohol tonight, but something told her he was only trying to keep himself occupied. Her feet hurt and her head ached and the room seemed slightly slanted at the moment, but Kitty was curious; she abandoned her place at the bottom of the stairs and walked over to the bar, just so she could hear what Peter was demanding and why the bartender was looking rather exasperated.

"...and those are the only two brands of vodka you sell?" Peter was asking in a surprised kind of way. "By far, I've never heard of such cheap-tasting alcohol sold at such a…er, high price."

The bartender glowered and put the bottle back on the rack behind him. "Well, it ain't like we're big on importing here…but it _is_ a classy place, and classy places sell expensive drinks."

"And you purport this is the way things are run in America?" Peter asked, almost sullenly, almost as though he already knew the answer to his question.

"If you don't like it, you don't have to stay," the bartender returned icily. Kitty found her moment to butt in; she walked quickly to Peter's side, her heels crashing noisily against the hard wood floor in her haste to cross the floor.

"Care if I join you?" she asked, so abruptly that the man jumped and turned his head to gaze at the girl who dared to offer such a suggestion.

"Miss Pryde!" He sounded both shocked and pleased; Kitty couldn't help but smile as she took a seat beside him. She could not recall the last time anyone sounded as grateful to see her as he did at that moment.

"I thought you looked familiar when I saw Remy come in…Bobby, some water please." The bartender shot her a hard glance before turning around to grab a glass. "I was a little surprised to find you here…hmm, reckon Remy pulled you right after work too."

Peter gave her a questioning glance before she reached out and grazed his ear, drawing her arm back to show him black coal dust on her fingertips. He knitted his brow with self-conscious shame. "Remy's right…guess I do neglect cleaning my ears…"

Kitty giggled as his face flushed. "And complaining about our vodka selection too, I see…"

"Well, I think its quality is far from what I expected." Bobby put down the water a bit fiercely without looking at either of them.

"A man never questions around here. He just takes." She took of sip of her drink and smiled into her cup. "But I'll probably bring it up with the headmistress if it bothers you that much."

She didn't look at Peter but knew he was watching her closely, wondering what exactly she was up to. "It doesn't bother me," he finally said, his voice quiet. Kitty gave him a sideways glance and saw that he appeared grimmer than before. "I was just being difficult with the bartender—" he gave an apologetic look at Bobby who seemed ready to pop him on the face— "but there were only two options tonight: dancing or drinking. I opted for the lesser evil." He motioned to the bar and smiled sheepishly at Kitty who went back to looking into her glass, trying to hide her smile.

"It was Remy's idea, then? Coming here?" She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. "Well, you can't blame the man for trying to include you."

Peter nodded, absent-mindedly playing with coins he had placed on the table. "He did mention you would be dancing tonight…" Irritation laced his voice and he cut off entirely, looking very involved with spinning eagles on the counter.

"So you came for the performance?" Kitty asked slyly, before an awkward silence could settle. "And you didn't like it?"

Peter actually looked horrified. "What…? No…I thought…You were beautiful—" Kitty gave him a quick look— "I mean…it…the dance was beautiful…and you…you…" He muttered under his breath and Kitty could've sworn it sounded like a curse word in another language; she allowed herself a smile and calmly asked Bobby for more water.

"So what's the problem?" She gave Peter a serious look and he scowled down at his hands.

"You could have told me you danced." He sounded slighted and refused to meet her gaze.

"What good would that have done?" She asked, taken aback by his resentful tone.

He did not answer immediately; Bobby was poised a few feet away and seemed deeply immersed with cleaning the same glass with the same rag over and over again. Peter frowned at the bartender, knowing he was listening, and tried looking everywhere but at Kitty.

She knew it was wrong but she was smiling again, staring at Peter with the kind of admiration and amusement when studying a child's indignation. "You're displeased…that I can dance?" She guessed. He gave her a defeated look.

"More like that _I can't_ and you had to witness it first-hand." Kitty gave him a sympathetic smirk, amused at this revelation; in truth she found him silly, clumsy, quiet—a giant, lumbering—towering figure with only his dark hair and deep blue eyes to save him. But she knew there was more than appearance to qualify this man. Part of her told her to leave, that she was wasting her time with someone that was completely and utterly wrong for her—one look, one glance should have warned her and she should have went straight up the stairs when she had the chance. And yet Kitty wanted to stay and hear him speak in his thick, musical tongue and smirk at his awkward, endearing ways…she had to admit he _was_ quite striking against the lamplights in the saloon and his smell of fresh air and soap and coal only intensified her interest in him...

"Dance with me, then." She had gotten to her feet and was looking him straight in the eye while holding out her hand, waiting to be taken. "Oh, come now—I want a dance, and Bobby even knows I don't often ask men for a go around the room." Her voice sounded sure, but her stomach gave a nervous churn and she was suddenly not certain of what she was doing. Perhaps he would turn her down…or worse, ignore her entirely…

His hand closed around hers, and for a moment their arms were suspended, clasped and connected between the two of them. His fingers were warm and his touch was gentle and Kitty was almost convinced that he might dance after all, when he abruptly dropped the girl's hand and quickly flicked his gaze off her face to look over her shoulder.

"Kitty Pryde?" asked an unfamiliar, gruff voice behind her. She turned slowly, her heart thumping furiously in her chest. He was a man of tall stature, probably over six feet from where Kitty was standing, had on a worn black hat and dusty dark shirt. She did not know him but from the looks of it, he definitely knew her. There was a sinister, intelligent gleam in his eyes that made Kitty uncomfortable. "I've been aiming to introduce myself…I warrant the neighbors have been complaining over some unexplainable sightings about this place…?"

Kitty knew about this…somebody was bound to be suspicious about mutants being docked at Maddie's…perhaps the girls down at the brothel snitched…or that weasel Cindy who saw Kitty phase through the stage floor by accident last week…

"They've specifically mentioned me?" she asked, her voice quiet and controlled. She noticed the Colt .45 in his holster, sitting pretty on his hip and tried to look unconcerned even though her heart was beating so loud, she could hardly hear his response.

"P'raps if we talk elsewhere?" the man suggested, sensing the audience behind her. Kitty gave a slight nod and whirled around.

"You'll tell Tabby for me, won't you?" She spoke to Bobby but was looking at Peter. He seemed hugely concerned but said nothing, just stared at her as she carefully turned back around, moving towards the back door.

"Miss Pryde?" The man asked gently, nodding towards the second floor. She automatically knew what his intentions were; knowledge was suddenly a very dangerous thing. She quietly led the way upstairs, flinging a fleeting glance back at the bar and found Rasputin watching her from his place by Bobby. Kitty swallowed hard, hoping the man would not draw attention, but when she opened the door to her room, she felt the cool contour of his gun's barrel at the small of her back and knew he was willing to use it. Her heart seemed to stop beating altogether and plunged deep into the pit of her stomach, but she refused to seem even remotely harassed.

"Get on, then," came the order, and Kitty stumbled into her room, letting the man lock the door behind them. It was horribly frightening, sitting there in the soft light from the dying candle on her dresser. She tried not to stare as he nonchalantly twirled his weapon around one finger. "You know," he suddenly said, when the silence became too unbearable, "you're prettier than they'd allow."

"You haven't told me what exactly it is that I've done," she returned coolly, trying not to meet his gaze.

"Ah, miss. You wouldn't have complied with coming up here if you didn't think you did anything wrong."

"Then what is it?" she hissed through clenched teeth, obviously feigning anger. He flinched at her tone but smirked all the same.

"Word's out, Pryde." She knew it before he could even finish. "You're a mutie. Got a few witnesses hanging around, hoping to send you to the cooler…or worse." His threat hung heavily; Kitty knew he was serious even though he would not wipe that stupid smirk from his face. "And it's not just me who's out to get you…no, there are others willing to hand you over…"

She settled her sights on the indigo-blue sky, streaked with black clouds just outside her open window, and tried not to sound panicked. "But you want something." The girl peered at her perpetrator curiously. "'Else you'd take me on the spot."

"You're sharper than you seem," he said, amused at her observation. "I suppose there is a bit of blackmail in it…"

"Isn't there always?" her voice was wry with controlled rage, knowing exactly what he wanted. And yet, she was not afraid even though there was only the two of them in her room, a floor above any help if she called.

"…It'll be over before you know it…and I could help you run clear out of Kentucky in no time…"

"I don't want your damn pity, mister. I only socialize with patrons, not complete strangers who'll do anything to screw me…"

"If I were you, Miss Pryde," he said, and his voice was low and wary, "I'd mind what I say. Don't think I won't use force…"

"I have no doubt you will." She was looking straight at him now, studying him carefully like she did with every person she met. It dawned on her briefly that he might not have the slightest idea what her powers were like at all.

And then he straightened his arm and aimed his gun at Kitty in the most deliberate and threatening sort of way. "Get up." When she refused to obey, he shot the edge of her bed with deadly intent. The bullet pierced her comforter; Kitty vaguely wondered how she'd manage to mend them after this mess…

"You get up," he said, shaking with perturbed fury, "or I'll shoot…I'll kill any damn _mutie_ I well please."

Kitty stood; she was faintly aware of somebody trying to turn the knob, and said serenely, "Then shoot." And when he could only stare at her, she took a step forward—he took a step back, not sure what she would do. "Shoot me," she said again, this time more confidently and strode at him with the most menacing expression she could muster. The man looked worried and then terrified and Kitty wished she could do more than just phase and wanted to turn him into something ugly and stupid…maybe a toad…or an ant…yes, an ant would do very nicely…

But then he fired and she felt the bullet fly through her and hit the back wall with a hideous –twack!— leaving the most uncomfortable, tingling sensation in her chest—there was, of course, the expectation that it would hit her body, but the fact that it continued to whiz right through without leaving so much as a mark was unsettling, especially to the man who had realized his mistake and only made things worse by shooting again and again and missing her again and again…

Then there came a terrific crash and when Kitty looked, she saw the door had been busted open and someone—something—had appeared in its wake, looking very large and very livid. And when that…thing saw the man pointing his gun (not so enthusiastically this time) at Kitty, he made to pummel him on the spot. The perpetrator fired but the bullets were actually _bouncing off_ the thing; the wrangle was brought to an abrupt end when that thing's fist connected with the man's face. Kitty stared at the sight as this new person brushed himself off and turned quickly to see her.

"You all right?" he asked, and Kitty was surprised to find the voice alarmingly familiar.

"Peter?" she whispered hoarsely, trying to see him behind that armor he had on, "What are you doing? And what are you wearing?"

He automatically seemed abashed. "I thought…I heard…" He seemed to suddenly realize he had on his armor at all. "Oh," he said, retracting it as smoothly as a chameleon changes its skin, "I don't usually have that on, but I felt like it could've helped…" he answered, upon seeing her confusion. She had backed herself up against the window, looking anxiously from Peter to the man on the floor who was struggling to pick himself up and back at Peter again.

For a few seconds, nobody said anything. And then the wretched man in black laughed, a low and bitter laugh that grew louder and shriller as he made it to his feet.

"This damn saloon is just crawling with mutants…somebody should have said something sooner…We would've cleared it clean by now…You don't understand how much I can collect on your pretty head, strumpet…but killing you would do me just fine; yes, it'd do us all a favor."

Kitty smiled despite herself, leaning back against her open window, her hands at the sill, and said in a sardonic voice, "As if you could."

The man cursed this conundrum and took a giant leap to grab at Kitty; she easily managed to phase through this last violent attempt and he fell through the wall behind her. There was a deafening crash followed by screams and gasps of horror; Kitty dove away from the window, taking Peter's arm and yanking him behind her unto the floor.

A moment passed where only the frantic yells of people down below could be heard; Kitty sat propped up against her vanity, feeling tired yet terribly excited and staring at Peter with a sort of disbelief and admiration. She knew she had a lot of explaining to do, but at the moment she was transfixed with the fact that her friend was cowering into the corner, trying to make himself as small as he could manage which was obviously and hopelessly impossible.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" he rasped, his accent conspicuously thickening.

She smiled in spite of the trembling in her knees. "I've been worse." But at that moment, Kitty was not truly sure if that were so. She absently touched her chest as if locating holes or bullets, but lowered her hands once she noticed Peter watching her, his usually blank face stricken with terror. "I've never done that before," she continued in a hushed voice, as if their situation warranted whispers. "Phasing another person out the window." It sounded so absurd, she actually laughed to herself.

Peter said nothing but continued gazing at her in amazement. She noticed and immediately took it the wrong way.

"Well, I had to, didn't I? He was coming at me, trying to kill me…"

"I didn't say…" Peter tried to interrupt, but something inside Kitty had broken and she turned on him even though she knew he was only there to help, her voice becoming increasingly hysterical with every word she uttered.

"And I had everything under control, I really did…but then _you_ showed up with whatever it was you had on, punching him out...He could easily report you too—did you ever think of that? And not once did you ever mention you were a _mutant_ to me." She said this with an effort, observing the way his cheeks flushed with color when she spoke that word.

"I didn't think it was important." He gave her a serious, concerned glare. "But I heard gunshots…what was I suppose to do? I had no idea you were…you had…and you didn't exactly tell me about your powers either..." He brought off, sounding angry.

There were footsteps running along the corridor; Kitty could just see shadows filtering through the open doorway from where she sat. The air grew stale and she drew in a sharp breath as Tabitha came hurtling into the room, looking shocked and blistering mad, like somebody had just given her another black eye and gotten away with it.

She gave a tiny –oh!- upon seeing Kitty and Peter on the floor, and ducked as if unsure whether to get on all fours herself. "Kitty, doll? I've got Bobby guarding the stairs…nobody's made it up here yet…What's happened, doll?" Her voice was harsh and afraid; she kept looking from Kitty to Peter as if the answers were plastered on their faces.

"Just a terrific row is all—" Kitty started, and Tabitha grabbed her by both arms and helped her to her feet. "But I'm all right."

"And you—?" Tabby nodded at Peter who was scowling at nothing in particular.

"Well, I _thought_ I knew what I was doing here." He did not look at Kitty but seemed to force his words at her. "But now I'm not so sure anymore."

"He tried to help me," Kitty put in, throwing Peter a sympathetic glance. "The man had a gun…"

"He tried to shoot you?" Tabby sounded horrified and delighted at the same time. "That must have been a sight…didn't even know what he was getting into." There was a flurry of voices just outside the window and Tabitha bit her lip. "They say he won't make it…fell on a wooden cart…nobody can really identify him…says he's a vagabond, some sort of self-proclaimed vigilante that's been visiting red-light districts around Durham; Bobby says he's shown his face once or twice in Maddie's before…what's he want here?"

Kitty took a moment to answer, familiar with Tabitha's flighty moods. "Mutants. He wanted to send me off, threatened to expose me…" And then his words flew back into her mind, the bit about how others were looking for mutants and were just waiting to slap a subpoena on her back and send her straight to the cooler…

Tabitha's grip tightened around Kitty's wrist. "They _know_?" Her whole face fell, heavy with dismay. Kitty glanced sideways at Peter who was gazing at Tabitha, his eyes glinting with unease.

"We can handle them," she quietly replied, her voice clear and confident. "We've done it before."

"But not when it comes to murder…"

"Nobody murdered anybody!" Kitty yelled and her voice was shrill with denial. "They can't make us leave, not when they haven't got proof…" She stopped talking, not wanting to continue babbling herself senseless. "Look," she said, closing eyes and trying to still her pounding heart, "We can't run like scared children—they'll threaten us wherever we go. It just ain't safe for mutants right now. We've got to stay here—it's the only choice we have."

"And if they ask what happened?" Tabby pointed out. Kitty squeezed her hands into fists over and over again, dreading this inevitable question.

"We'll say he wanted sex, he threatened me with a gun, and ended up being pushed out the window. And you can just tell anybody that wants to listen that I did it out of self-defense…"

"Without a scratch? No broken glass?"

"The window's large enough, isn't it?" Lance had done his share of surprising Kitty by sneaking in through the window for her to know for sure.

"And your door?"

"That would be my fault," Peter put in. Kitty gave him a careful glance and saw a fleeting shadow of a smile appear on his face.

"They won't put his name in the paper, you know. But they will mention you," Tabitha mentioned gravely. Men found dead in red-light districts were deliberately shielded from shame by the press; women on the other hand, especially those involved in the lewd businesses of prostitution and dancing, were not spared. Kitty knew this, squeezed her hands into fist once more and willed herself not to lash out in anger before answering.

"Better that they know. Maybe they'll think twice next time before attempting to do me in." She forced a smile for Tabitha who seemed less fearful when their eyes met. "Go on then, tell them I've fainted or something dramatic like that…make it seem like I'm sorry—" Kitty clenched her teeth—"And help Bobby herd the men out, will you? He probably has enough on his plate already…"

"All right, but you know they'd rather hear it from you…"

"I'll explain things to Maddie later," Kitty said, and Tabitha got the hint. She gave a last squeeze on Kitty's wrist and quickly left the room.

Kitty let out a shaky breath and sank down onto her bed. She felt dreadfully tired, having jousted in a match she barely won and racked with too many troubles she could not even begin to sort through tonight. Dusk was beginning to stretch across the sky; Kitty had never wanted anything more than to be under the covers, ready to wake up from this nightmare…

Someone stirred behind her; Kitty was suddenly aware that Peter still remained in the room, looking pitifully at the door he had bludgeoned on his way inside. He was standing now, and he looked much taller and bigger than she remembered; his face was blank of expression and he gave no hint to what he was thinking.

"Handled that all right, I reckon," she yawned, her heart a steady, beating lump catching in her throat. "I thought I would be fine, just dandy, but it's not quite like that…no, it's not like that at all." She was scared stiff, her hands pumping into furious fists over and over again while her stomach did weak flips, but she held her feelings at bay and managed to swallow the urge to scream. What exactly should she tell Maddie? What would she tell the girls? And how could she possibly stay in Kentucky when there were others around, just waiting for her to make a mistake…

She felt a hand on her shoulder; it was warm and comforting and Kitty longed to melt right into her sheets; she glanced up and found Peter holding her at arm's length, looking as though he were at a loss of what to do.

"Is there anything…you need?" It was a feeble question, asked as if there was nothing left to say. Apparently, their brief, hostile exchange earlier would not be held against her. Kitty shook her head, wanting him to stay but knowing he would go. When Peter reached the doorway though, he hesitated, turned his head as if to make sure she was still there, and said in the most regretful way: "I'm sorry about the door." And then he was gone with a shadow of a smile and a polite "good night." Kitty waited for his footsteps to die away and quietly pulled out the only gingersnap box Tabitha failed to find during her latest raid. She ate without thinking, forcing down one cookie after another until the box was as good as empty. And then she spent the rest of the night retching it all back up—a rather repetitive, gruesome process that buried her problems of mutants and dancing and Lance to leave her empty and numb yet satisfied and focused all the same.

Tomorrow she would deal with them.

Tomorrow she would know what to do.

* * *

**Another A/N:** Just thought I should take a moment to explain myself just in case there's anyone after my using the eating disorder card with Kitty as the victim. I have used it before (see Snow in April), though I've tried to make it more serious this time around. Maybe I'm being a little harsh; I sort of hesitated putting that bit in, just wondering what you would say. But I thought I'd be daring, though I hope I did not come across as reckless and therefore offend anyone. I personally think it works, especially with everything going on for poor Miss Pryde. Perhaps, we're in for the reactions from Lance and Piotr soon. Just so you know, is all :)

I said it before, and I'll say it again: please review and tell me what you think! Again, all comments and curses are welcome:) Thank you for those who have been and will be reviewing; it's good to know I've still got an audience to write for.


	9. Nine

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: I know; I've missed you too! It took me almost a year to get something down on Word, and you might want to read the extended A/N at the bottom of this chapter for an explanation, but I wanted to do it right. It is very long, though, but usually that's a good thing :P

* * *

**12. A Change in Scenery**

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1876**

Piotr didn't mean for her to come, but he didn't have it in him to turn her away. Kitty Pryde, rumor had it, fainted on stage during a performance and woke up the next morning without remembering anything from the night before. Piotr walked into his shack one day and Remy told him point-blank that she was coming to stay for as long as she needed. Doctor's orders: some country air would do her some good, could set her mind straight. It was Remy's idea to let her stay with them, of course—always feigning savior, one way or the other. But this time was different; this time, he had Piotr to help.

Tabitha was the one who brought her. Piotr could tell the choice was not hers; with her face stained with powder and tears, she looked guilty and miserable; when she turned to leave, she was no longer the dancer with the power to tempt and betray. She looked remarkably ordinary, and Piotr knew exactly what was running through her mind; he imagined the contained whispers, the rumors of a mutant working at a local saloon; the dwindling customers. Kitty was brought because there was no other way to fix the problem. But the blame had been set and Tabitha was pained because of it.

He watched her walk away with her shoulders slumped, climbing into the fancy carriage which sped away the moment the door closed. And then he turned his attention to Miss Pryde, who watched with him, avoiding the moment she finally had to look at him as long as she could manage.

Piotr had tried to formulate an opinion about her, but there was nothing to piece together. She was as blank as a starless sky, closed so tight like a door that had long since lost its key. But when she finally met his gaze, Piotr could see her world crumbling behind her brave face; her sorrow so vast, he felt his own chest heave. It was spiteful to pity, though; shameful how he could not help it. She seemed so tired, so sad, and yet so completely and absolutely beautiful while her world collapsed all around her.

Piotr opened the door wider. "Inside," he said, and she obeyed.

He pointed out the kitchen, the two bedrooms, the fireplace. He showed her his former room, where she would be sleeping. He let Kitty into the small patch of garden behind the shack, which included the porch, the well, and the wildflower fields. He let her look at all he had to offer, and when it was finally her turn to talk, she didn't. Instead, she went up back into the house, phased into the bedroom, and locked the door.

She did not come out for awhile, not even for meals.

- - -

She was not like at all as he remembered. Gregarious, risky, perhaps even a bit proud, the way she held herself like she had nothing to lose. Not anymore. Somewhere along the road she left that all behind. And then suddenly, here she was, as raw and as real as ever. But she hardly spoke, and Piotr only saw her when she wanted to eat, which was not often.

Two nights later, it was just Piotr and Kitty sitting at the table with bread and celery soup and silence between them. She caught him looking at her wrists when she dipped in her spoon, which were mostly skin sticking to bone. The anger flickered in her eyes before it left her mouth.

"It's not polite to stare." Her first words and they were nothing but fire. Piotr looked away, but the damage was done. She was like a tiger, closing in for the kill. "I know you look when I'm around. Light as air, they call me. Might as well blow away with the wind." She stood up, and her figure was dangerously slight, disturbingly skinny. Piotr rose as well but it was too late; her intent was obvious. She was going to run. "And you're no different. No help at all. You have no idea what I am; what I'm capable of doing."

"Wait—"

"I hate it here. Remy's never around; you don't even talk! A bustling waste of time, a chock-full of bullshit; like hell you'd help me." She left the table, phasing through her chair, through the wall, and that was when Piotr reached across and latched unto her hand before she could escape him entirely. Her head swung around; she gazed down at their locked hands as if amazed that he had dared to touch her. He felt pretty amazed himself. And then she phased through his hold and was gone. Slipped right through his fingers; literally.

He followed, of course, but she was like the air, blown away with the wind, and there was no telling which way she went.

- - -

Piotr searched all night, but it was like picking glass out of sand. He went far, past where the wildflower fields ended and where the path began. It was not until dawn did he give up; he had done all he could. And yet, he could not convince himself that it was nearly enough.

The wind had died down considerably; it howled in the distance, but left him alone. All night it taunted him, pulling at his coat and whisking out his light. He didn't miss it all that much when it finally left, probably off to torture some other fellow who was searching for someone he couldn't find.

And then, all of a sudden, there she was, sitting on the porch steps as if she had never left at all. He approached her, weary with searching, and although her face was drawn and cold, he could tell something had broken in her. The girl glanced up and saw the lamplight in his hand; her eyes met his and she had the decency to look ashamed.

"You were looking for me," she said, and there was incredulity in her voice.

"_Da_. You came back." He couldn't believe it. She was gazing at him with a sort of fascination, almost admiration, at his reply.

"I…don't have anywhere else to go." She laughed at this, a weary sort of laugh, as if she had told the same joke one too many times. "Acres of flowers and miles of sky and I've got no place to go!" She took a long look at Piotr, and in that one glance, he saw her shattered world, the unanswered telegrams, the skipped meals, the fights with patrons. He saw her defeat, her impatience, the nights spent crying into her pillow after fainting during her performances. He saw all this, and he didn't know what to make of it.

A long silence passed between them. Piotr said, "I was worried." She lifted her head and wore her confusion on her face. "People have disappeared wandering the fields at night. They get lost, they get eaten, who knows? So I was worried."

He walked up the steps, passed the place she sat, and heard her say, "I'm sorry I left like that. But you don't understand. Others would've just let me go." She stood up and he turned to look at her. The sun was rising and he could barely make out her face against the orange curtain as the indigo night fell away.

He nodded, tight-lipped and worn down. "Next time I will." And though he could not possibly predict the day she would walk out of his life and break his heart, he already regretted saying those words.

When Piotr awoke a few hours into the morning, he found her curled on the floor close by and fast asleep for she too was dead-tired from sitting up all night, waiting for him to return.

* * *

**13. Surprise, Surprise**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1877**

Rogue knocked on Kitty Pryde's door, nervously watching the men file into the saloon at a quarter to nine. She was shaking so bad, it took everything in her to keep walking. Tabitha had taken one look at the girl and sent her back up to find Kitty. Apparently, she had something to calm the nerves since drinking was not allowed before performances.

She was dressed to dance; her shoulders felt exceptionally bare considering the rest of her body, clad in purple or black. Tabitha had altered the costume as best as she could manage: her black gloves stretched well beyond the elbows, her legs covered with black stockings and boots buttoned to her heels. Rogue knocked harder. This time, the door creaked open, and Rogue pushed it farther in order to look behind the door. She leaned until her corset creaked on its tightened strings. No one was there.

Dead daisies sat on the windowsill, curtains drawn, window shut. The room was dark except for a lamplight on the vanity. It was a plain, furtive place, with nothing to show except a Missing poster taped to the mirror, Kitty Pryde's picture staring at her, smiling like she meant it, the writing underneath too small to read.

Those eyes…those familiar eyes…

"You need something?" Rogue spun around in horror, wondering how long Kitty had been standing behind her this whole time. But she could not answer, not immediately. Something had registered; something she should have realized before. Those half-finished portraits drawn by Piotr, those pictures hidden away in that forgotten room…they were her. They were Kitty Pryde.

"T-Tabitha told me to see you…" She stopped short as the girl grabbed at Rogue's gloved hands.

"Come on then, we've only got a few minutes before we dance," she said, letting Rogue inside and closing the door behind her. Kitty went to her vanity and pulled out the bottom drawer and reached for a bottle. She handed it to Rogue after shutting the drawer.

"For luck," she explained. Rogue turned the bottle in her hands. It was malt liquor. "Works for me," Kitty shrugged, sitting on the bed.

"Ah thought we're not allowed a drink…"

"It's a rule, Rogue. A rule that's repeatedly broken because it's never enforced." She granted her a smirk. "But you knew that, of course."

"'Course." Rogue unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle into her mouth. It was like a fiery vengeance down her throat.

"Better?" Kitty asked, her lips twisting into a half smile. Rogue nodded; noticed how her knees had stopped trembling after the third swig. Something worse than her nerves was eating her at the moment, and she heard Kitty start on about remembering kicks for the dance and flirting with the right people.

"My, Tabitha knew what she was doing. Evened out your bangs pretty well; I couldn't be prouder." She took the bottle from Rogue and returned it to the drawer, stopping only to check her appearance one last time in the mirror. "I think even LeBeau would be impressed…you look pretty in purple…it suits you…"

The question ripped out of Rogue before she could stop it. "Did you know a Piotr Rasputin?" She regretted the words right as they left her lips. "Pardon, my askin'," she added like an afterthought.

It was as if the breath was knocked out of the girl. Even in the dim light, Rogue could see Kitty had paled considerably, and knew, right then and there, she had posed the wrong question.

"Why…Why do you ask?" Kitty wondered, keeping her voice light. But she was frowning and would not meet Rogue's eyes which stared at her carefully through the mirror. Kitty suddenly started powdering her nose although that was not all necessary.

"He…Ah…"

"Rogue?" Kitty suddenly said, dropping the powder puff and turning around in one motion. Her eyes shot to hers with an alarmed urgency. "What? What's he got to do with anything?"

Rogue swallowed the hard lump that had formed in her throat, knowing now why Remy objected to her decision of choosing Piotr as a partner and why Piotr himself had hesitated to assent to dance with her. And the longer she waited to answer, the staler the air became until she realized she was holding her breath.

And by the look of things, so was Kitty Pryde whose lips were turning white; she kept crushing them together.

"He'll be here tonight." She had only whispered this devastating news when Tabitha erupted into the room, looking distressed and annoyed and relieved all at once.

"What the Sam Hill is going on in here? Show's about to start and we're two short while you both are having high time in this here room! Kitty, you better liquor up—you don't look too good!" And with that, she grabbed Rogue's wrist and pulled her out of the room so fast, Rogue was sure she could feel the fire slosh back up from her stomach.

Kitty followed, but not as quickly. There was a shadow of dread that had crossed her face, a look Rogue would never forget. She had never felt so rotten, and it sure wasn't the liquor's fault.

* * *

**14. Conversations **

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1876**

They were sitting in the fields far from the shack, under the lone tree which stood a few yards from the well. Piotr painted as Kitty loitered, her hair held high in a ribbon, wearing her good dress and humming a song he had heard once, maybe twice. All around them, the land laid golden, basking in the bright afternoon sun.

"I heard of mutants who could read minds," she said, her voice floating whimsically like the air whispering through leaves. She was friendlier now, and spent most of her time in his company.

Piotr dipped his brush in yellow paint. "Oh?" Their conversation was jumbled, like random pieces falling into place, but Piotr did not mind; he loved to hear her speak.

She bobbed her head and smiled. "Remy told me." Kitty bent and tore a flower from its root. "And there's one who could sprout claws from his knuckles. Reckon it should be painful, huh?" Piotr watched her for a moment, noticing how her mouse-brown curls twirled in the wind.

"You are not from here." She stood up straight and stared at him steadily. "You do not talk like them."

Kitty smiled and pinned the flower into her hair. "Funny you should notice. I like to think I'm part of this town as much as it's a part of me."

"How long have you been here?" He dabbed the canvas with yellow, smearing it expertly with the tip of his brush as he waited for her to reply.

She thought about it. "Almost a year. Land Sakes, it's been so long." But she did not sound impressed with herself. "I come from Illinois. Do you have any idea where that is?"

Piotr confessed he hadn't a clue.

"Well, it's in that direction, I suppose." She made a vague motion with her arm, pointing north. "Came here on horseback, with nothing but this dress and Lance. He said we would chase the wind, and this is where we ended up. The middle of nowhere. The natives call it Kentucky."

He nodded slowly, dipping his brush again. "You ran away." His tone was neutral, as if he were simply stating a fact.

She cracked a smile and began to yank at more wildflowers unfortunate enough to grow nearby. "Sure did. We were planning on going West of course, but we didn't have any money. So I chose to stay and make some and the rest is history." She looked over his shoulder and asked, "Say, what's that supposed to be? Your lover?" But of course not; the girl he painted was much younger with golden hair and bright, poignant eyes.

"_Syestra_. My sister," he replied. She stood back.

"She as pretty as this?" Kitty sounded skeptical.

"See for yourself." He pulled the picture from his breast pocket, the one he kept close to his heart.

"Oh." She dropped next to him on the bench, her skirts billowing as she looked over the picture carefully. "Oh. She has your eyes."

"It is very old, that photograph." He took it from her and slipped it back into his pocket. "I haven't seen her in years. But she will come here, after I have made enough."

Kitty smiled slightly. "You see? I am not the only one in this lonely place for the money. We are the same." And then she considered it for a moment longer. "We are a lonely people, you and me."

Piotr said nothing. He chose instead to dwell on the fact that she had spoken of them as one and that she carried on like it didn't matter.

"What are you doing here anyway?" He suddenly asked. She was gazing at him curiously and Piotr explained, "You seem an intelligent girl. You could choose to be anywhere else. And yet here you are, stalking a miner like me."

She laughed, a high, tinkling sound which rang in the silence. It was a good sound to hear. "And miss watching you paint? Not for the world." Somewhere in the distance, a robin warbled softly. And all around, a hushed sound, as if the flowers themselves waited for her to continue. And so she did. "Look, I admit I ran away because I didn't know any better than being in love. But I don't have the grit to go back. Frightened to face my folks, you see. Some ways, it's just easier to stay here. Lance can earn his way and I sure as hell can earn mine." She gazed at his painting and after a long pause said, "Well, isn't that the beatingest thing I've ever seen. It looks just like her. You know, you could probably make a living off of these things for some rich folk up North."

He glanced at the girl, if only for the sake of looking at her earnest eyes shining in the bright sun. "You think so?"

"Sure I do. That's impressive." She cocked her pretty head to one side and asked, "You think you could draw me with that magic paintbrush of yours?"

"Well, that depends," Piotr said quietly. "Alvers would not approve."

"Ha ha, you've got some odd sense of humor. But if I take these—" She snatched up the paintbrushes and phased through the bench so that she stood straight. "—You can't paint a thing." And then she took off running, her skirts flapping as she tore down the field, kicking up petals and dirt behind her.

Of course he followed; he had been openly fooled and raced to cover lost ground. She was quick on bare feet, but his legs were longer; Piotr reached for her again and again, but she managed to phase through his grasp each time. She laughed as he puffed along side her, until he caught hold of her hand and swung her around. She stumbled; he saw his opportunity; he gained footing and threw his arms around her.

Her breath came out in short gasps; he could feel her ribcage expand between his hands. She was still laughing, but it was quiet and muffled against his shirt. Her hair had come undone and it fell over her shoulders, grazing the tips of his fingers. Piotr realized she hadn't phased and he was holding her very near and he could smell her sweet cinnamon scent filling his nose and yet she still hadn't phased.

"Piotr," she suddenly said, and it sounded so correct coming from her. The paintbrushes clacked inside her fist and Piotr vaguely remembered chasing after her to get those back. "That's your actual name, isn't it? Remy said so. I've practiced it and that wasn't easy. I'd say it in my head before I'd say it out loud. _Piotr Piotr Piotr_, just like that." Her voice reverberated against his chest and he closed his eyes and stood very still, holding her against him.

"In Russian, your name would be Katya," he said, after a long pause.

She nodded, as if in agreement, keeping her cheek against his shoulder. "Oh. That is pretty." Kitty lifted her head to look up at him. "You can call my painting that." He smiled at her and saw how her gaze flitted between his eyes and his mouth and suddenly her expression changed as if she had finally noticed how close they were standing. How his arms seemed to wrap around her in an endless embrace. Finally the girl phased, just like he knew she would. And his arms felt empty without her between them.

"We should…" She turned her head so he would not see the color rise in her face. "We should probably head back." She slipped the paintbrushes into his open hand. Her fingers holding his.

"All right." He kept his voice gentle, though he felt his soul soaring—soaring high—but he didn't know why, and when she started walking barefoot across the grass, he followed close behind, her cinnamon scent stinging his nose as if she were still in his arms.

* * *

**15. Confrontations**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1877**

"Nightcap already, Miss Pryde?" She glared at the thief, her hand gripping the glass as she turned away from Bobby who had just finished pouring her second whiskey sour in a row.

"I wasn't turning in." She wished she hadn't answered him; it would have saved them both the trouble of a conversation.

"Y' might as well. I've seen a dozen _hommes_ approach y' tonight; reckon none of them left happy, _non_?" Remy appeared by her side, a lazy smirk across his handsome face. Kitty would have given anything to wipe it off herself.

"They got their dances," she told him flatly.

Remy ignored her tone. "_Oui_, but reckon they'd have liked a _kiss_…" He jumped upon the stool next to hers and told Bobby to pour him a drink—"She's paying," he said, gesturing towards the scowling Kitty Pryde.

"I've got t' say, _beb_," he went on, selecting Scotch over the brandy, "y' worked some pumpkins w' Rogue. Cain't say f' sure if I thought she was up f' dancin', but y' certainly proved me wrong."

"Doubt she'd make any money, staying with one partner the entire night," Bobby put in. Kitty gave him a severe glare that sent the barkeep back to pouring drinks. She knew Remy had found his way in; there was no stopping the topic now.

"Oh, _beb_, I was wonderin' if y' took t' noticin'. Piotr wasn't sincerely up f' dancin' tonight, but Rogue was very…_convincing_." He relished the last word with a note of contempt. "Caint say I'd approve, de two of them. Reckon Rogue's taken a shine t' Rasputin…"

"What do you know anyway, LeBeau? You've been back for what? Two weeks?"

Remy glanced at her sideways; his playful smirk sent her stomach wheeling. "What do y' care, Kitty? When's the last time you've seen him? Two months?"

He had her where he wanted, cornered and caught with nowhere to run. Even Bobby could sense her tension; he stood with his hand on Remy's cup until Kitty shot him a look and he quickly went back to cleaning the glasses.

"So he told you." She managed somehow to keep her voice calm.

Remy shrugged. "Somethin' like thet."

"He knew nothing good could come from keeping me for company." She stared into her cup as if she found the contents fascinating. "Though it troubles me that he still considers you a friend."

"_Chere, Chere!_ There's no need t' try an' defend yourself; dat's not what I came here f'…or maybe it was, I cain't exactly remember anymore…oh, well, reckon it don't really matter…"

"That doesn't change the fact that he's here, LeBeau," she said lamely.

"An' you're takin' it pretty well," Remy observed, referring to her empty glass. Kitty pushed herself away from the bar and checked her complexion in the mirror behind Bobby, knowing she felt sicker than she looked.

"I've done you a favor, Remy LeBeau," she started, looking him straight in the eye to make sure he was listening. "I took your mutant and I made her everything you wanted, did everything you asked and this is the thanks I get, bringing back a man where he's not wanted? I thought better of you, Remy. And now I know better."

He gave her a hard look, knowing she was serious. "_Non_, Kitty, it was out of my hands. Rogue thought of this lil' stunt all by herself."

"Frankly, Remy, I don't want to hear it," she said, heaving off the barstool and walking across the floor without looking back.

But Remy's voice carried over the noise: "Because it never meant anythin'." She turned, her mind racing to retort, but one of her girls was there, standing between them in a very nervous sort of way, her eyes flicking to Kitty and then to Remy and then back again.

"What is it, girl? Out with it," Kitty said, exasperated. Amara went up to Remy and said very quietly,

"A man would like to speak with you."

"A man, _petit_?"

"He calls himself Sabertooth." Remy's face faltered but only for a second. He rose to his feet and thanked the girl for the news.

"I'll be off then." He bowed slightly, and if he was scornful he certainly did not show it. "_Adieu_, Miss Pryde." Kitty watched him, hated him for walking away so easily, hated herself for not being able to stop him. But why waste another minute with Remy? The night was young. Kitty knew how to make the most of it. She ordered another whiskey sour, tossed her hair once, and returned to the crowd.

- - -

Rogue noticed Piotr did not take to crowded scenes too well. He did not care to drink, would not dare gamble, nor could he hardly lift his eyes for a second before dropping them in a mixture of embarrassment and disdain. But he could dance, and as he held her hand and kept his other at the small of her back, she had the impression that there existed just the two of them and the music, carrying along in perfect time. And once in awhile, he would look at her, and she could see in his eyes there lay a hint of amusement, like he were truly enjoying himself.

"Yah're good at dis two-step," she told him shyly, and he gave a sort of half-chuckle as the song ended. "Yah never told me yah danced. Ah thought we were in dah same boat, Piotr Rasputin." Rogue was more than slightly disappointed when he dropped his hands inside his pockets as he led her to chairs around the area.

"I did not think it mattered," he shrugged, sitting down across from her. She smiled, looking at him in earnest.

"It's a nice surprise." She tried to meet his gaze but found it averted elsewhere. Rogue followed it as best she could; she realized he was staring in Kitty Pryde's direction, but the girl's attention was set on flirting with a man in a bowler hat; Tabitha had introduced the two.

"Sorry—I was distracted," he muttered vaguely, absently drumming his fingers on his knee, his eyes downcast. Rogue gazed at him knowingly, regretfully.

"She's a pretty girl," she said understandably. He said nothing and continued to stare at the floor. "Yah would agree. Yah painted her once."

He lifted his head and smirked, but clearly his heart was not in it. "So you know."

"Ah lahke tah think Ah'm smarter than Ah look." She smiled, amused with her own joke.

Piotr said, "I thought it would be easier for us to get along without involving Miss Pryde. She gave you a job, after all." He was so painstakingly polite, Rogue had to frown.

"She had no right tah go an' break your heart." She shook her head in a sorry way. "Ah've read dat letter, an' it's nothing but bad news. She didn't deserve you."

Piotr cracked a short smile. "You sound just like Remy, like I am such a sorry wreck." He laughed and laid his hand on her gloved arm. "Yes, I loved her once, but that was awhile ago. It never meant anything; it was over before it could begin."

"Dat's an awful thing tah say," Rogue returned. "Don't tell me yah actually believe dat."

"Well, what would you rather hear?" His smile vanished, and he seemed very somber and tired suddenly.

"Ah don't know; dat you chased her tah town and fought for her hand."

Piotr suddenly laughed, but it was very deliberate and not in good humor at all. "I wish I could tell you I did. But she loves another. Loved him longer than she has known me."

Rogue was surprised to hear this, but it would make sense. A girl like Kitty Pryde would fancy a boyfriend. Piotr noticed the change in Rogue's determined expression and was ironically satisfied.

"Explains a lot, _ne_?" He fiddled with the loose strings at his collar between his large fingers. "I would read her note over and over, but the words always stayed the same." Now he was ripping at the ends of his strings. "And I have thought about running down these streets, calling her name, writing sentimental things in English and even in Russian…but that would be useless. Tremendously wasteful. Because she is involved with another." He dropped the strings and gazed at Rogue, and she was struck with how very chivalrous and very defeated he seemed. "And now you know," he added, with a note of finality. But there was nothing final about his story. Piotr did not mention his paintings, the hidden room, or why she meant so much and how quickly he had tossed it all away the day he knew she was gone for good. But Rogue was wise not to goad him; she did not know how to mend his brokenness.

"Ah'm sorry," she said, for a lack of better words.

"We all are," he replied, after a moment.

The miner took up his coat and Rogue got to her feet, realizing he was leaving. They stood together for a moment before he reached for her hand.

"My shift starts in an hour," he said simply.

She scowled, mostly because she did not want him to go. "Yah work too hard."

"That is the idea." He smiled and stuffed his hands into his pockets once more. It was hard for her not admire the way his angular face glowed in the dim lighting of the saloon. The hard lines in his face seemed to soften just a tad. "If I am lucky, I might see you in the morning. Good luck, Rogue. I hope you make loads of money tonight so you will never have to dance again."

She laughed and secretly wished it were true. And then he was gone, through the swinging shutter doors and out into the open air. Rogue thought she saw Kitty Pryde staring in that direction, but there was no way to truly tell, so she fixed her feathers and skirts and asked around if anyone cared to dance with her.

* * *

**16. If You're Going to Leave**

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1876**

She told him once that her favorite flowers were fresh daisies. He awoke early and spent the morning in the fields, thinking about her and plucking daisies into a clumsy bouquet. Remy had left for Texas a few days back, and Piotr figured it was for good. Remy knew a good deal about Piotr's feelings for the dancer and said as much when they were at the train station.

"I've seen t' way y' look at her," Remy said, as Piotr stood to his side and did nothing to agree or disagree. "_Amor_, Petey. I know it when I see it. And I don't like what I'm seein'." And he went on. "_Femme_ like dat, y' cain't trust them any. She's attached t' Alvers f' a reason, _mon ami._ He might be a robber, but you're just another miner." Piotr felt a tinge of anger, but Remy was only speaking the truth. "Y' be careful, _homme_. Y' hold her too close, an' y' might never let go."

Piotr had watched him leave that day, and should have known that Kitty Pryde would soon be gone as well.

So when he saw the black stallion loitering beside his water well, Piotr's heart sank faster than an anvil thrown into the sea and he quickly hid the daises behind his back. Cheerful, welcoming laughter came from inside his shack. Lance had returned; he knew this for sure.

Kitty came to the back door before Piotr could make it inside; he caught the glitter of a new bracelet around her wrist, saw that her hair was fashionably swept high behind her head. Kitty smiled at him but the miner knew it wasn't genuine.

"Piotr, I was wondering where you went off to," she said breathlessly. He meant to explain himself but caught sight of Alvers standing just behind her and shut his trap, clenched his hands into fists, and dropped his gaze to the ground.

"Petey Rasputin! You damn scalawag, what have you done to my girl?" He stood behind Kitty, grinning with all his teeth. He was rugged with traveling through the West complete with chaps and a wide brimmed hat. "She's done ready to live in the country for the rest of her life!" He laughed and put his hand forward to shake. "How's the mining life? Or should I say the watercolors? Painting, Petey? C'mon; what are you, some goddamn pansy?" He roared at his own joke and Piotr was good enough to smile at him, if only to humor the bandit. But his insides were smoldering and he fought hard to contain his anger.

"What time did you come?" He asked, as conversationally as he could. He had long dropped the daises and saw that Alvers's horse had started to feed on them.

"A few minutes ago. The sun was just coming up from over those hills." Lance made a grand gesture, indicating the landscape. "I came as soon as I got Tabitha's telegram. My girl's fallen sick. I had to run back to see her." He pulled Kitty close and kissed her head. "So what did you have? A cold? A fever? Well, whatever it was, it sure is gone by now." Piotr suddenly realized Lance hadn't the faintest idea why Kitty was here in the first place. But the girl remained silent, and her dazzling, admiring smile kept Piotr from ruining the moment. He watched as Lance took Kitty's knapsack and gallantly volunteered to tie it to his steed, jumping from the porch and walking to the horse which was grazing nearby.

The miner was breathing hard but he didn't know why; when Kitty quietly joined his side he could not move; he was hurting so bad and the girl would never know it. She smelled of dreams and broken sleep and Piotr would have given the world just to hold her again. But she was not his to hold.

"I didn't know he'd come so soon," she was saying calmly. "But when he started calling for me through the windows, I knew it was him."

The miner nodded but could not bring himself to look at her. "It is what you wanted." He forced a small smile. "He is right. You look much better." They would not say she was light as air anymore. They will see she was healthy again and her smile was worn and her hair was glossy, and they will credit the country air for fixing her problems. Soon she will forget she even came; Piotr could be certain.

"Don't patronize me," she said, not unkindly. They stood a moment longer in awkward silence, close together on that worn-down porch. "You can visit me, you know. I'd like to see my picture when it's finished."

"_Da_. All right." He wanted to tell her he loved her, just like that, in pure simple English. But there were no words to convince her, to tell her she was chipping away his heart because he could not compare to the man who chased trains and reeked of adventure and charm and life. And what could he offer, _ne_? A handful of measly daises and a self-portrait, that's what. No; a mere miner like him didn't stand a chance.

"Piotr." Her voice was expectant. In the distance, Lance was waiting. Piotr's head rang with Remy's advice playing over and over again: "Y' hold her too close, an' y' might never let go…" And that was his mistake. He had only held her once, but the damage was done. He couldn't let go. But he couldn't make her stay either.

"Katya." He took her hand. Kissed it politely. "_Ya lyubeet viy." _He said this lightly, so she had no idea what he could have possibly said. But she must have sensed its meaning; the girl retracted her hand quickly and walked swiftly to Lance who hoisted her with one arm and gave Piotr a farewell salute. A cloud of dust later, they were off and galloping away, like two lovers should, into the broad horizon as the sun began its upward climb across the limitless sky.

Piotr watched, feeling foolish and lonely and sat on his porch for awhile, lingered until he could not remember her cinnamon scent and quietly turned back inside.

* * *

**17. Mining is a Dangerous Living**

**Slicker's Coal Mine, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

Nobody volunteered for graveyard shift anymore. It was hard enough trying to see into the mine in broad daylight, and though there were lamps lit in the entrance, you walk deep enough and the light goes out and there's nothing but darkness swallowing you whole. Something new, like electricity was dubious, and Slicker's was not advocating for employee satisfaction and did not invest in the new systems. Piotr, on the other hand, took every graveyard shift he could get, because the mines echoed with his labor, and he liked being busy if only to set his mind straight and away from her.

So when he heard there would be another miner joining him tonight, he didn't think much of it. Not when the man was calling through the mines just to listen to his own voice holler back. Piotr drew up his pick and could just see the space in front of him, thanks to a candle stuck outside his cap. The space he was mining was dense, and he reached out to feel the side of the wall with one hand. The coal came down in clumps around his feet.

"You can shovel it," he told the new miner, who had joined his side. But the man did not move immediately. Piotr turned around, frowning. His shoulders ached; he wanted to wear his metal, but it didn't seem reasonable. Besides, nobody needed to know he was a mutant, especially some new guy who was slow to react.

"Rasputin?" The man sounded surprised. Piotr strained to see in the dark as the man came into view. "Holy shit, you sonuvabitch." Piotr didn't know what to think, but when the pick came down, he was quick enough to move away from it. "Come out here!" That voice, it rang loudly, loosening the walls so that the dirt flew like the sky was falling. Piotr was suddenly all metal by pure impulse. The mine was a very vulnerable place, and there was not much space to run. His light had gone out and he could not tell where he was standing anymore.

And then the ground shook but Piotr did not know why. It shook violently, again and again until the walls were toppling, and all around there was blackness and noise, and Piotr felt the ground break underfoot, snapping like he was stepping on weak twigs or dry leaves.

"I said: Come out here!" He was angry, whoever he was.

Piotr yelled, "What do you want with me?"

"You know what I want!" But that was silly; Piotr didn't even know who was trying to kill him in the first place. The miner strained to see in the dark, and when that failed, he took to listening as the rocks settled as high up as his knees.

And then it dawned on him, but he could not be sure; he backed into the wall and said, "Alvers?"

He heard the man laugh. Cruelly. "Scared now, are you? On the trains, they called me Avalanche. Can you guess why?" The ground shook and the walls began to crack and Piotr realized he meant to bury them both. Alive.

"Stop it! Stop it _now_!" He made a mad dash forward and collided with Lance who spun out and hit against the far wall. And everywhere he turned, the world was collapsing in on them. "Why are you doing this?"

He could not see Lance, but Piotr could imagine he was seething. And then Lance said a very curious thing: "You done stole my girl!" But there was no time to explain; the far wall had broken and the earth trembled, and all around rocks were bouncing off Piotr's metal skin, as hard and sudden as hail. Piotr breathed in dirt and dust: a different sort of drowning. He heard Lance cry out in pain as something large fell close by, and soon the miner was buried deep under the rubble along with him.

And all around, that confounded darkness closing in from all sides.

* * *

Extended A/N, a Character Analysis:

I apologize. I know I've been holed up and left you all hanging, and that was cruel in itself, but I want you to know that I never forgot I had this story to complete. The thing is, I didn't want to write a bunch of sap and simply slap it online. I have a soft spot for Kiotr, and I wanted to do it justice. Hard to believe, but it's very hard to write a good conversation between the two of them. I think I underestimated it, and that's why it took me so long to actually write something I liked. There's got to be about eleven different versions of their first conversation on my computer, not counting those I've already deleted. Some were too long with useless, frilly words; some didn't make much sense. A lot of it was just sap. I think I was trying too hard to make it simple and succinct but most of all believable. I was having problems incorporating Piotr's language, deciding what sort of conversation should they have, and it was a lot about going back to the drawing board and sticking to what I wanted to get across. I liked the idea that Kitty and Piotr's relationship would start slow and shy, juxtaposing Wanda and John's, which was fiery and strong from the get-go. For Piotr, it was enough to simply hold her, but he is so painfully respectful of her love for Lance that he tries to downplay his own feelings.

It was very different to write from Piotr's POV, mostly because I wanted to keep the attention in his direction. He's the reason I've got a stack of Russian dictionaries sitting on my desk since my Russian is (sadly!) extremely limited. And Kitty Pryde's personality, I like to think, is devoid of all her cartoon X-Men Evolution childishness. She's a saloon girl, after all, a plotline I built since she would be a wonderful performer. In the show, she knew how to dance…

When it comes to Lancitty, I salute it, I really do. But wouldn't it have been interesting to see how Piotr would have fit into Kitty's life after he was introduced in the series? Things we will never know…well, I suppose that's what fanfiction is for…

Please review! It would mean a lot :D


	10. Ten

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: And thus, I continue. It's been such a long time, and that has been a very bad deed on my part, but for all those waiting around, waiting for this story's overdue resurrection...well, I hope it sufficed. At least enough for a review :D Some language to be expected.

* * *

**17. Deception**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps, Kentucky: 1877**

There was a dull, tired ache in her legs that radiated as far as her back, but when Rogue tried to focus her thoughts away from the pain, all she could see was Piotr in her arms with Kitty Pryde on his mind.

The saloon was still bustling at this early hour, but as far as Rogue was concerned, she didn't need to be entertaining anyone anymore this evening. Not even Remy had stayed long enough to watch her dance—awkwardly, with her arms and legs covered good, she had been too focused on keeping her gloves on that she missed a few steps and hid behind the curtains long before the number was over. She did, however, recover enough to earn herself some tips—twelve eagles in all—and that was more than she expected for one night.

But somehow, something wasn't right. Somehow, she had done them all wrong.

She saw it in Tabitha's scornful scowl every time they crossed paths; how Bobby shook his head when he handed her some water; and Kitty Pryde herself, always polite yet skirting her shadow whenever she came near. Rogue knew she was at fault, but couldn't tell who deserved the apology.

All night, she had convinced herself that this was all Kitty's doing. If only she had never written such a letter, ending it before anything could begin; if only she hadn't ignored Piotr in the first place…

But Rogue was angry; defiant. Because she wondered what if he had never met Kitty Pryde at all; would he be able to see her any differently?

She knew. She knew, inherently in the farthest reaches of her heart, he meant more to her than he could ever mean to Kitty Pryde. Nothing was quite as painful as realizing this disparity. She drove her knuckles into her calves, if only to displace that sort of anguish in a different way.

The scent of cinnamon perfume caught her off guard and Rogue lifted her head to find Kitty Pryde herself staring serenely back at her.

"Surprised you?" She was standing by the wall, and Rogue did not understand how she had gotten through her locked door without breaking it down, but Kitty Pryde did not give her a moment to think it over. She stalked to the bed and sat down. They were on opposite ends of the room, but to Rogue, Kitty seemed worlds away from where she sat.

"Tuckered out, Miss Rogue from all that dancing?" she offered conversationally. But there was a weary note dragging her voice, like she was tired of the same game, finally ready to concede. "You reckon Mr. Rasputin enjoyed himself tonight? Remy mentioned you were all friends…" She cut off, looking somewhat embarrassed. She was being careful, Rogue realized; so painstakingly polite, if only to learn more or possibly even understand Piotr's coming.

It was that fierce, almost painful sort of disappointment that was not quite jealousy. It was different, much different—because she could not bring herself to hate Kitty. It was stunning and saddening all at once, and far worse than that throbbing running through her legs.

"He wasn't here tah see yah."

"I know." She said this quietly, but Rogue could hear the strain in her voice and was wickedly pleased. She wondered vaguely if Kitty had come to spout her childish regret and dissolve into dainty tears. But when she spoke, Rogue noticed quite the opposite. "He never did come by. He didn't keep his word." She looked at Rogue suddenly, her eyes cold and accusing.

Rogue was obliged to defend herself. "You act lahke he owes yah."

"It's not like that," she said sharply, wildly. It was the first time since Rogue had met Kitty did the dancer seem outwardly agitated. And seething. "He had me fooled, making me believe I…we…" She broke off angrily, her face drawn in frustration. "And then he walks in, out of the blue, not to apologize, not to see me, but for a mutant girl who can't even touch, to dance with her and pretend I don't exist…"

"That's a bit spiteful," Rogue interrupted, riled because Kitty had thrown her secrets back in her face. "He didn't care tah see yah after what yah done did tah him, writing him such a letter like that. Imagine, chasing yah down, only to figure yah loved someone else." She saw Kitty open her mouth to reply but blasted, "Didn't think it was worth it, when you played him like a fool. Yah got what you deserved, Kitty Pryde."

But Kitty did not understand. "I never wrote him any letter." Rogue turned her head to witness this new treachery and lash back on her lies, but Kitty's expression was genuinely confused. And though Rogue wanted to retort, she realized that maybe Kitty was telling the truth and somewhere along the way they had all been deceived.

Both girls sat in bewildered silence, neither one knowing where to begin or whom to blame. Rogue felt guilty; it had felt to so good finally letting Kitty have it, but now it all seemed utterly useless, shameful almost. And when she looked back at Kitty, she found the girl staring at the dead dandelions on her sill, her face forlorn and worried.

And then from the window, a shout that startled both girls and shattered the stillness. Rogue was the first to respond, throwing open the shutters and immediately catching sight of Remy LeBeau under her window, riding a horse she had never seen before.

"Rogue!" He yelled, and she threw open the glass to lean out just enough so that she could clearly see his face turned towards hers.

"Don't tell me yah done stole another hoss, LeBeau."

"I've got a good reason this time," he said, half smiling at her, but his words were urgent. "There's been an earthquake at Slicker's! Petey was caught in it; they's saying he's down there!"

Something caught in her chest and Rogue had to hold the windowsill tighter to keep from falling straight down.

"Remy?" This was from Kitty, who had joined Rogue's side. She leaned herself out the window so that half her body hung over the sill. Remy actually smiled, out of relief or amusement, Rogue couldn't tell.

"Juss de femme I was lookin' f'." His seriousness caught Rogue off-guard. "He needs your help, _chere_. This ain't between us anymore; we need to get him out, alive or not."

Rogue noticed how quickly Kitty blanched at the news; and scorn raided her soul because she was not solely needed.

But the dancer did not waste any time; she grabbed Rogue's gloved hand and pulled her through the door, and they were moving so fast, Rogue wasn't sure how she could be gliding—flying! down the stairs and out the back door, where Remy was waiting with another horse he just happened to find. But there was no time for explanations; Kitty hurriedly took the steed and expertly steered clear of the saloon with Remy and Rogue quick on her heels; and not a moment too soon, heading towards Slicker's mine where Piotr was buried.

* * *

**18. Lance Explains**

**Slicker's Mine, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

I must've been knocked out cold, 'cause the next thing I know, I'm staring into nothing, my eyes snapped open and wide, trying to make out the blankness all around.

It's the noise, I tell you, that rock slide of someone—something digging that brings me right to my senses. It rattles the ground, knocks things out of place, but it ain't me doing the work. My powers quit the moment my hands were buried under this here rubble.

So I listen for awhile, listen to the sounds of earth and rocks and that crazy digging, noises underground where nobody above wants to hear. I listen for as long as I can stand, but the more I'm awake, the more I can feel my ribs crunching down, closing in on my lungs, making it that much harder to breathe. I remember seeing a lady crushed flat by a carriage once; her dress caught and she went right under, and there was this terrific crunch, so loud, and then suddenly, I hear my own body crunch, not unlike the sound of that lady going under, and Jesus, it scares the shit right outta me. I start talking like a mad man, half-afraid of dying and terrified all to pieces to see myself through to the end, and it's funny, wanting to live and die at the same time; my soul split between two worlds. I can hear myself chattering, not understanding a word I'm saying, and then, all of a sudden, it all stops at the same time. The senseless talk, tumbling rocks, digging noises. All gone in one, tiny _blip_.

I'm amazed; honest to God, I'm fucking _astonished_. S'ppose I never heard the world so damn silent. It's fucking eerie, is what I'm saying. But what really makes me nervous is when the noise returns. Only it's more like crunching gravel underfoot. And it's getting closer.

I hold my breath, and someone else breathes in my place. I look up, which is foolish, granted I can't see an inch in front of me.

"Alvers?" The darkness asks in my direction. It sounds powerful and thick with an accent I swear I've heard before. I listen closely and hear his heavy breathing, his heaving lungs that ache for air and come up with nothing but coal dust and dirt. Granted I should know.

We breathe the same shitty air.

"Fuck," I say, mostly because I want him to hear it. I want him to know I'm alive. "It's you, ain't it? Still in one piece, Rasputin?" I look around and the darkness is so complete, I can't see him. I can't see a damn thing.

That's when I remember everything, where and when and how and why. A quick stab in my heart, and it all returns: Kitty Pryde standing on the second floor of her saloon, the train rides, Rasputin's shadow thrown against the far wall, the mine, God Almighty, the mine. I remember and I start to laugh because I don't know what else to do; this whole mess was my fault to begin with. Did it all by myself; wouldn't Kitty be so proud.

She'd be proud I did it for her.

I guess I laugh a little too loud, because the next thing I know, the Russian is standing next to me, somewhere close. He breathes a little too loud to be discreet.

"Caught me, Rasputin. Cornered and buried and nowhere to go." My voice sounds strange; clogged and thick and worried. For awhile, and as far as I know, he does nothing, just stands close and breathes. There is tension, I know now; if he were a fuse, we'd both be blown to pieces in a wink. I shift, if only to break the awkward silence. Reckon what's there to say to someone you tried (and failed) to kill, who could just as easily kick in your face? And all I can do is wait until he gets close enough to aim correctly.

That's why I'm so surprised when he suddenly talks to me.

"Can you move?" Feigned concern. It's touching, I think.

I try, just for the hell of it. "Nope." Seems as if I'm buried up to my shoulders. But my response seems to break the tension almost instantaneously; I suddenly hear rocks scatter, the ground shifts, and I realize he's digging. Digging for my bones.

It surprises me, honest. We are said arch rivals. Enemies from the beginning. Did I mention I got us in this mess in the first place? He should be beating me to a bloody pulp by the way things are going...

"You're wasting your time, you know," I manage to say. My lungs creak with coal and it takes a lot just to talk. But I don't want him to help, Goddamnit; last thing I need's his sympathy. "You might just send the rest of this cussed place to hell and finish us off for good."

"I will worry about that," he says simply. And he doesn't stop digging.

"S'ppose you're wonderin' what I was doing in your mine," I say, if only to fill the emptiness with my unfamiliar voice. When he doesn't respond, I take it upon myself to talk for the both of us. "Never thought I'd be reduced to this, a miner like you, digging the earth for scraps. If the Gang ever found out 'bout this, they wouldn't let me live." My voice is not my own; it's as if I'm listening to myself in a completely different body. "But you should've seen us! We could ride those iron horses til the cows came running home."

Seems like only yesterday that we were the dreaded Brotherhood Gang. There were rumors of how burglary was in our blood, just as mutation was in our genes. The Boys were looting the West blind long before our voices cracked.

"We were some pumpkins in the West. The world was after us, you know," I say, not really knowing why I think he even cares. "Wanted by sixteen states and three territories for rooking (not to brag or anything), but no matter how many patrolmen or police they sent, nothing could hold us back. We were worse than demons, they said. We was mutants."

I'm suddenly aware that Rasputin's stopped digging. There is a contrast in the different shades of black; I can decipher his shape, the way he stands, so massive it fills my frame of view. He bends over, taps something on the ground and asks me. "Feel that?"

"Feel what?" But right when the words leave my mouth, I realize he's dug out my legs, and I can barely make out my shapeless limbs under me. A flash of something—jealousy, hatred—blinds me and I cuss because those are the first words that come to mind. That he might just live and I probably won't. And I'm scared shitless because that jumbled mess of uselessness belongs to me.

"Right." I breathe in coal until I can actually taste it in my mouth. "Holy fucking shit." I can feel time lurch and the ground spins from underneath me, but I cannot lose it. Not here. Not now. And just when I know I'm really gonna be sick, I hear Rasputin start up again, as if nothing has happened, shuffling through the dirt, digging deeper for the rest of me.

I try to focus on positive things, memories so engrained in my head. I remember Pietro with lightning legs kicking up dirt tornadoes and the Scarlet Witch wielding a gun with no bullets. Train schedules and makeshift maps; riding cross-country with nothing but the clothes on my back and a song in my head.

And that's when things made sense.

Memories, hung up like a laundry line, one after the other, flipping through my mind until I lose track. I've moved past the West, where my reputation was made, and find myself traveling back East where I left a mutant girl to a saloon with nothing but my word.

I loved her once; that I know for sure. It's that sort of satisfactory, necessary kind of feeling I found with Kitty Pryde that kept me coming back every few weeks, because no matter which way you see it, she was good for me. Granted she couldn't cook a damn thing, but she was hopeful and genuine and every man deserves a girl like that. So we ran away together, and I filled her head with weak promises that I broke every chance I got. And I never thought she'd see through my lies until the day I gave her gingersnaps as a gift and she nearly lost it. She had finally seen just how detached I was from the rest of the world. So she told me. She told me how she wouldn't eat for days on end, how she had gotten so bad, she'd faint on stage and Tabitha would have to cover for her. How it used to mean so much, to have me there, a telegram from the West—anything. I didn't know what to say. I was wheeling between disgust and surprise, finally noticing how she did look thinner after all, with that faded, dreary sort of look you'd see on a dead person.

And then she told me about Petey; good ol' quiet, sensitive Petey with the watercolors and the portraits and talent, such talent. She had stayed with him for awhile, I can't guess how long, but it was sure long enough to have a change of heart, so they say. She credited him for a lot of things, too much, if you ask me, and the more she talked, the worse I got, angry, so angry I was seeing white.

I cut her off. I asked her if she loved him. But I didn't really want to know.

The question had thrown her, I could tell. Color flooded her face, color I'd seen only when I kissed her, and then it dawned on me maybe she hadn't thought about it either.

And this is what she said to me; she said, "I love you, I do, Lance. But I can't love the man you've become."

Funny how she was always good for me; because I could never be good enough for her.

And it all comes back to me at once: the guilt, the unanswered telegrams, the humiliation of rejection that makes me curse everything from God to my parents. And Rasputin, of course. "You know how long she loved me? Do you?" Something tells me I shouldn't pick fights with the one person I actually need, but I never could help myself. "Years. I was the one who brought her here in the first place. She loved me; but what do you know? You probably never even seen her naked." He draws in a sharp breath, and I snicker. "Do you really think she's only a dancer? I mean, c'mon Petey; she works in a saloon. S'ppose she's got favorite customers of her own that pay for a little extra something…"

It takes me a moment to realize Rasputin has stopped digging again. For a moment, and for a moment only, the silence returns, and I m suddenly very alone and very afraid.

And then the fear materializes.

Rasputin grabs my collar, jerks my head back so quickly my eyes actually roll back, throttles me as far as my body will give. If he moved my lower body, I would have never known it. He's got a good grip around my neck, and I cannot think about anything except how cold his hands feel; cold as steel…

"_Why you_?" The question comes out as a snarl, jolting me back to reality mostly because I hadn't expected it. "Anyone she could possibly love, so _why you_?" And although his colossal hands are around my neck, threatening to snap my spine if he wasn't careful, I don't react. At least, not right away I don't. Because I hear how his voice cracks with each word and drags with desperation; how his grip quivers badly because after all this time, it's all he's ever wanted to know.

And I don't know him at all, but I know this pain. It's like the air he breathes. It's the same as mine.

"She never told you?" I can tell my question jars him a little. His grip loosens and he stammers between Russian and English.

_"Nyet_. Told me what?" I don't answer right away; I like that sort of element of surprise, and let it sink in good before I tell him.

"She gave me the mutton a few months ago. Said we had grown too far apart, or some shit like that. I gave her gingersnaps from Arizona and she threw them at me. For someone with skinny arms, she sure can throw." His hands fall away; reckon he's contemplating what I've just revealed. "Said she moved on. Naturally, I figured she done run off with Remy. But then she told me about you. Petey this and Petey that."

Piotr pauses, and I know he's running this new information through his head. "She talked about me?" He asks quietly.

"I just figured you and her ended up together, so I swore one day I'd kill you, just to settle the score."

"Well that turned out pretty well."

"There's no need for sarcasm." Or irony. Because a few weeks ago, I thought I could bury Piotr right under the rubble with me. I definitely did not count on him trying to dig me out while talking about the girl between the two of us. "You'd do the same, or something near close to it. She's the kind of girl you'd kill for."

His silence speaks volumes; I know he can't disagree.

"She was supposed to join the Brotherhood," I tell him, and it's like I'm in a different body all over again. "She was supposed to make her powers work for her, for us. But just like Wanda, her heart was in a different place. Lost from the beginning, that's what the Witch was. And what does Wanda do when she finally finds what she was looking for? She upends the entire Brotherhood and walks out on us, simple as that. I'll never forget the day she dropped her guns and let us have it. Fuck, it sure ain't fair; kind of like dying in some lonely mine in the middle of nowhere."

"Do not say that," Rasputin suddenly interrupts. He sounds shaken, as if he hadn't expected me to die after all of this. "I will get you out. Someone will come."

"It don't look good," I say, and it's the truth. The blood's gone thin in my head and the world's slowly starting to spin. "But I appreciate your trying." S'ppose all I wanted was to bring the world down with me, only to have it come down on me.

"Help will come."

I snort. "Get this straight: I was s'pposed to kill you. Kill us. Quickly."

"Help will come," Rasputin says again, pretending not to have heard me. He is suddenly at my side, and reckon I'd rather be trampled by a million buffalo or drowned in a river than be caught in a mine, but I'm mighty glad that I ain't alone just for this once.

"She made fools of us," I say, and again, he does not disagree.

The darkness shirks and I lean my head back because I'm tired, suddenly, so tired. The air stiffens dangerously and I start to gasp. Gasp for air I know ain't there to take. But then I hear something coming from behind the walls. An echo. A voice.

"What's that?"

Rasputin stands; stiffens. "Help."

And I know it before she enters, that Kitty Pryde has finally arrived. Fancy that.

And two suddenly become three.

* * *

**19. Rescued**

**Slicker's Mine, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

Piotr sat staring into the darkness, silent in his armored skin, listening to Lance's ragged breathing and was at the very least, comforted. As long as Lance breathed, Piotr knew he lived. The moment it all stopped…now that was the time to panic.

But until then, Piotr waited with his back against the wall with nothing more to do than listen into the darkness. He had finished unearthing Lance's body, cringing when he lifted Lance and placed him flat on the surface. He did not know the science behind being crushed, nor what bones could have been broken, but when Lance began to yell, he damn well knew it sure must be mighty painful.

He closed his eyes, tried to think of ways of getting out of this mess, but for all he knew, the roof could cave in and they'd both be done for. There was no way out. Their only hope was help to dig them out.

And it was dismal, he knew, to hope like this, but it was the only thing keeping him from ramming the walls in, praying for death to be quick.

His mind wandered, back to a time when he dreamed of a girl who broke his heart. He had begun to hate those feelings, horrid and wasteful and bitter because he believed they had an ounce of worth, but now, all he wanted to do was tell her. Just to tell her he loved her. Deeply. And it was a waste, because now she would never know.

The darkness rang; Piotr looked up and found that silly; he couldn't see a thing. But a new sound, like an echo, like a voice, a human voice, calling out his name. And when Lance asked about it, Piotr found the answer automatically: _help_. He found his footing, made a mad dash and collided with the wall closest to this new noise. He banged the wall; coal immediately tumbled from the impact of his fists.

"Here! In here!" He pounded the wall to prove it. His heart beat furiously, resounding and pulsing in his mind; he was found! The voice called to him, again and again, and he waited and yelled until someone reached the wall from the other side. But there were no shovels or picks to draw him through, just a lithe creature phasing through the wall and knocking into him.

"Piotr?" His heart almost stopped because he knew it was her. It just had to be. He could sense her fear, her inhibitions, and he was transported back to the day she arrived on his front porch. He put a safe distance between them, but Kitty drew nearer, her hands tracing the walls, feeling for substance. So Piotr let her come to him. And she said his name, over and over again, until he knew she was standing so close he could hear her quivering breath.

Funny, how he had done everything in his power to shut her out, only to have her so near, she could break his heart all over again.

Her arm suddenly collided with his shoulder; as she staggered back, he reached out automatically.

"Piotr?" She gasped, relief cracking her voice. And then she did an amazing thing: Kitty threw her arms around his neck, her hands clamping unto his collar, and buried her face under his chin. Piotr was taken aback, his senses hit all at once by her cinnamon scent, the violence of her grasp, the creak in her lungs begging for breath. But he took her in, slowly and generously, until he could remember. He remembered why he loved her, mostly because he never truly could forget. "I've got to get you out," she said, her voice echoing in the hollow of his chest. And when she fell back, her hand remained in his.

"Wait." He tugged her towards the ground, until he reached Alvers whose limp body was cold upon touch. "Lance," he said, prodding for his shoulder, giving it a good shake. Kitty let out a tiny gasp as Lance groaned, suddenly coming to life. "Lance, Kitty is here. We're saved."

Alvers did not respond. And when Piotr heaved him unto his shoulders, he noticed how weighty Avalanche had become, his limbs dangling lifelessly around him. Kitty said nothing when she reached for his hand again; she grabbed unto Lance's arm and together they walked as one, quietly, quickly, through the darkness.

* * *

**20. Last Request**

**Slicker's Mine, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

Remy watched the sun rise behind the Kentucky Mountains as Rogue restlessly paced before him, worrying her gloves and furrowing her brow until he knew she would surely go mad. They were standing towards the back of the mine, where no other miners were present. Remy had sent Kitty ahead after instructing her where she would most likely find Piotr. And as he waited, he smoked his cigarettes wonderingly, absently admiring the way the sun hit the girl in such an angle that she actually _glowed_. He was ready to admit he had been all wrong from the beginning, when she suddenly looked up, her green eyes ablaze, threatening to set him on fire.

"Why're yah starin' at me?" She demanded, angrily, and Remy dropped his gaze to the ground. She had caught him off-guard; reckon he didn't like it much.

"You clean up good, _chere_." Rogue gazed at him, and he swore she blanched, but then she wrinkled her face into a scowl.

"Don't patronize me," she said, turning away, and he grinned because he knew she was embarrassed. But for once, he was only half-lying, and it made him uneasy. "Our friends are in danger, an' all yah can think of is…" She did not finish, and Remy was glad she chose not to continue.

So, to lighten the mood, he resorted to his reliable, defiant badgering again. "How long you planning on wringing your hands...surprised they haven't fallen off yet."

"Ah'm surprised you're not," she said, although she had seen him go through a few cigarettes as the minutes fell away until hours went by with no sign of Kitty or Piotr. "What if she can't find him? Didn't yah say Peter was in there deep?"

"I said that, sure. But Kitty's come through before and we're standin' right close to where he mines…"

Rogue cut him off. "Ah cain't believe we're not in there, helping her look."

"It wouldn't do them any good…"

"What if Petey's pinned in some place she cain't reach?"

"Kitty will find him. I told her where t' go."

Rogue glowered and grumbled, "Yah shouldn't have asked her to come."

Remy glared at her in complete disbelief. "I know what I'm doin', _chere_, an' she's the only one who could get him out. Besides, y' don't even know her powers."

"Cain't be dat fancy." There was a sharp edge in her voice that made Remy realize something he had been missing all along.

"_Ga lee_. Y' like him. Is thet what dis is all about?" There was incredulity in his voice that pressured Rogue to explain herself.

"What if Ah do? Ah didn't know Ah needed your approval tah lahke him."

Remy frowned, not because she was grating him into pieces with this argument, but because jealousy wrenched at his heart and he looked away, probably too quickly he realized too late. She didn't mean a thing, he kept telling himself. Not a thing.

"How can you like him?" He found himself asking, actually wanting to understand. "Petey Rasputin! Of all people…"

"He's attractive. And sensitive." She narrowed her eyes. "And nothing lahke you."

Remy rolled his red eyes and mocked her with a smile. "Fancy dat."

"Oh, Ah'm sorry. Ah forgot: yah wouldn't get it."

"No, you're de one who doesn't get it. He's in love with Kitty Pryde, in case y' haven't figured it out. He's loved her all this time, regardless of what he says." He took a long last drag off his cigarette before flicking it into the air. "An' y' can't change thet."

Rogue knew he was right, but her judgment was clouded by her seething, blinding rage. She charged head first into Remy, knocking them both to the ground. He threw her off, laughing until she threw her fist into his face so hard, that his Stetson flew off and Remy fell back in a hazy, painful daze. Rogue was momentarily satisfied, vaguely hoping she had permanently rearranged his face, until the crunch of gravel underfoot distracted her. She looked up to see Kitty and Piotr, both covered heavily in black soot, the sunrise bathing them in brilliant gold. She struggled to her feet to abandon their brief tousle, leaving Remy groaning pathetically on the ground, and approached the couple hesitantly, the grief Remy placed still fresh in her heart. And that was when she noticed the body hanging from Piotr's shoulders; she stopped to watch as he lowered it to the ground and into Kitty's arms.

She ran to Piotr, but saw the way he gazed at the two, resuming a sizable distance away from them. Rogue crept closer, slower now, her heart leaping into her throat, wanting so badly to say his name, but afraid to break the silence first. So she stopped in her tracks and stared on as Kitty cradled the body in her lap.

From her position, Rogue could see his features and was surprised to find him familiar…and when Kitty stroked his hair from his face, she realized he was from the Brotherhood Gang, the one who shook the earth and took his burglary business too seriously. Lance Alvers, she recalled. The Avalanche. She watched quietly as his eyes opened slowly, gradually. There was a sort of bleak look in his eye, but when he saw Kitty he managed a smile, his lips a dreary sort of blue.

"Kitty." He gripped her hand weakly. "Been awhile."

"'Course it has," she half-laughed, tears running loose down her face. "You've done a stupid thing, Lance Alvers." She brushed her hand against his cheek as the wind picked up her curls and strung them into the air.

From the corner of her eye, Rogue saw Remy limp towards the scene; soon, he too stopped in his tracks a few yards away.

"You sorry now?" Lance grimaced and smirked, the sides of his mouth crinkling. "Rasputin made it out?" Rogue noticed how Piotr tensed upon hearing this, how a look of shame crossed his face because he knew things had not gone according to plan. How he had cheated death and lived while Lance lay dying in Kitty's arms.

Kitty nodded, her face brave. "Got out all right, sure."

"Good." He swallowed hard and blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. "Thought I'd go quick. Being crushed ain't so fun." Lance closed his eyes. "I did it for you," he added, a new tone in his voice: crisp, clipped, as if he really wanted her to know it.

Kitty gripped him tighter. "I didn't think you'd actually do it. Stupid, stupid move." But she bent down and kissed him gently.

"Stay with me," he said, and she nodded almost instantly, rocking him back and forth in her arms. He stayed strong until the wind died and a hushed sound filtered through and became nothing but sad, stunned silence.

They buried him at noon, out beneath the wildflowers with a single marker for his grave.

* * *

Response to Reviews for Ch. 9:

Goldylokz: Thanks again for the faithful reviews! I hope you liked the chapter, despite it's long hiatus...

Doesn't Matter: Hmm, wonder who you sympathize with now, after Lance is out of the picture...I thought a retrospective and guilty Lance would do for a POV; the bad-guy persona was made just a little more complex :D Huzzah!

Secret Agent Smut Girl: Thank you! I credit my writing muse, but it's been lagging for some time, as you can see.

ShadowFax999: How can you be so sure Logan will return *raises eyebrow*? Then again, it could be because he has super human healing abilities. That could be a dead give away.

As someone once sang, if you love me, won't you let me know? Please review!

And the question remains...will Piotr finally be with the girl of his dreams? Or are their other plans in their futures? Stay tuned!

* * *


	11. Eleven

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Huzzah! My goal was to churn out another chapter before winter break ends, so here it is with not a minute to lose! Consider it a late winter break present. Some language to be expected.

* * *

**21. A Meeting**

**A few hours before, Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps: 1877**

Victor Creed had on a dumpy cowboy hat, riddled with bullet holes, a favorite of his, as he reclined in his chair with bourbon between his hands. Remy LeBeau took his sweet time approaching the man; his face was certainly not a welcome one. But when Creed glanced up and saw the thief standing a few feet away, he swung his legs off the table and grinned with all his shiny, violent teeth.

"Good to see you, Gambit." He motioned to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

Remy stuffed his hands into his pockets and did not sit down. "You ain't s'pposed t' be seen in public when I'm around. We agreed on that."

Creed pretended not to hear. "So which one is she, Remy? She can't be so plain if she's a dancer…"

The philanderer cut him off. "There better be a good reason y' asted f' me."

Creed let his hat slide over his eyes. "There have been rumors from the last time we spoke in Tennessee. Thought I'd give you fair warning." He allowed a few moments of silence to finish his bourbon. "Mutant talk; the great Logan lives."

Remy narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe it."

"I wouldn't be so sure of yourself, LeBeau. I know that scent like the back of my hand. It's faint right now, but it's blowing this way. And whatever it's chasing might just end up catching you."

Remy sat down quickly and hunched towards the foreman. "How far?"

Creed shrugged nonchalantly. "I'd give it three days."

"Three?!" Remy was outraged. Creed smirked, not kindly, and reached into his pocket.

"That gal must mean something powerful to Logan. It's good enough for Magneto." He tossed a bag of coins unto the table. "Your payment in advance, as requested."

Remy glared at him. "I asted two weeks ago," he spat, but took it anyway and counted the fifty gold coins inside. Creed looked on with a hint of amusement.

"Satisfied enough?" The foreman traced the edge of his empty glass with one long, sharp fingernail. "Magneto's interested in meeting her, LeBeau, and you know he can't wait forever. Death from a single touch. Now that's power." He said this in mock amazement and laughed, outright and crazed.

The thief cringed. "She ain't ready yet."

"It's been almost two months now, Remy." Creed leaned forward, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Don't tell me you've become _attached_ to this mutant."

Remy got to his feet, stuffing the bag into one of his many coat pockets. "I'll call y' when I need y'."

"No need." Creed dropped a few coins for the bourbon. "I always know where to find you, Gambit. And so does Magneto."

"Thet's what I'm 'fraid of," Remy said, half-meaning it, and went walking back to the front of the saloon as Creed waited until Remy was out of sight before disappearing into the crowd and into the night.

* * *

**22. Saying Good-bye**

**Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps: 1877**

The clock on her mantle chimed two in the afternoon as Rogue threw off the covers and dressed quickly, stopping only to stare at herself in the mirror for awhile. The saloon was quiet at this hour, rid of both patrons and dancers alike, and Rogue could think to herself for a bit without being disturbed. She had promised Remy she would return to Piotr's place before the day was over, but there was no motivation to leave right away.

Rogue had slept at the saloon because she did not want to see Piotr and Kitty together in that shack. She did not want to see them make amends and forgive the past and run away together; she was not strong enough to just stand and smile and pretend she was not jealous. Rogue had to get that out of her head, to stop acting like such a ninny as Remy called her, and so she retreated to the only other place she knew in Kentucky, and let Bobby pour the bourbon until he had to help her up to her room after she drank a bit too much for one sitting.

She fixed her face and put her bleached bangs behind her ears. She had to be happy for them. She would be happy for them.

Rogue stared into the mirror and threw her powder puff at her reflection. "When are yah gonna stop lying tah yahself, coward?" She got up and walked to her window to view the back of the saloon and was surprised to find Kitty Pryde loading her suitcase into the carriage as Tabitha talked loudly and Bobby pitched the horses to the carryall. She watched as Kitty went to hug the girl good-bye, making Tabitha break down sobbing.

"So she's leaving for Piotr's." Rogue snorted. "Figures." She walked down the stairs and out the back door just as Kitty came through, wearing her best blue dress and pelisse. Her face was carefully powdered and prim with hair pulled high behind her head with a matching blue ribbon, and when she saw Rogue she flushed a little and looked uneasy.

"Sayin' your good-byes?" Rogue asked the girl as she crossed her arms in front of her. Kitty smiled ruefully and looked away.

"Yes."

"Well, then, good luck. Piotr must be very happy."

Kitty glanced at her quickly. "Well, I don't know about that." She picked up a hat box by the door and held it against her hip.

"Where will you two go?" Rogue further prodded. Tabitha made a small sound and Bobby stopped working the horses long enough to stare at Rogue.

Kitty calmly stepped into the carriage but left the door open. "Ride with me to the station, Rogue."

The girl was surprised, not expecting that offer, let alone from the likes of Kitty Pryde. Rogue walked up to the carriage and noticed Kitty watching her coldly. They stared at each other for a silent, tense moment before Rogue climbed inside and took her seat across from Kitty as Bobby whipped the horses alive.

As the saloon fell away behind them, Rogue shifted uncomfortably as Kitty looked out the window. "Dis is all mighty unusual, Miss Pryde," she said, minding her words carefully.

Kitty did not turn towards her. "I wanted to talk."

"Look, if Remy said anything, then Ah apologize. Ah know Piotr will only love yah and dat things would work out dis way and Ah'm happy for yah, Ah really am." She squeezed the last few words through set teeth, hoping it sounded truthful at the very least. Kitty hardly seemed to notice as she continued to stare out the window.

"We avoided each other for two months. This is the first time we've actually talked since then. I was mad at him, and I guess he was angry also. We're practically the strangers we were the day we met."

"So why save him?" Rogue was not sure what Kitty was telling her, but she was determined to find out.

"I suppose I wanted to see him again. It was convenient that way."

Rogue nodded; sure, she could understand that. "He must've liked dat surprise. Reckon he got it all wrong, accepting a note you didn't write…"

"Oh, so you've decided to believe me."

Rogue glared at her. "Lahke Ah said: reckon."

Kitty allowed herself a smile. "What else did he tell you about me?"

Rogue narrowed her eyes, wondering why Kitty was suddenly so curious. "Romantic, silly things. He's not much of a talker, yah know."

"I do." She closed her eyes.

"But he loved yah all dis time while yah were with Alvers. And he respected dat all raht and let yah go. He would do it all over again if he had known different."

"Funny how things go sometimes." She was being so calm and irreverent that Rogue was becoming more than a little annoyed.

"Hey. Piotr's done good, even if he's just a miner."

Kitty nodded lifelessly. "He's a good man. Distant, quiet, sure, but good all the same."

Rogue blinked. "Kitty, what are yah getting at? Where is Piotr takin' yah?"

Kitty turned her head to face Rogue, suddenly, finally. The girl had never seen Kitty Pryde so sad before. She was just this broken, hopelessly beautiful girl that Rogue couldn't stop staring at.

Finally, Rogue understood. "We aren't meeting him, are we?" The words tasted strangely stale.

The ride was bumpy and tossed Kitty back and forth, robbing the silence as the wheels rammed through rocks and dirt and dust. They sat in their own disbelief for awhile, allowing the world to turn and life to go on outside that carriage.

"Does he know?" Rogue asked, her rage neatly contained. Kitty nodded.

"I told him I couldn't stay."

"Reckon he said somethin'?"

Kitty swallowed hard. "He agreed."

"Ah don't believe it," Rogue said. He couldn't have. Kitty was so close to being his, it seemed a shame to let her go without a fight.

"My leaving doesn't involve Piotr. This isn't about love, Rogue; not this time." Kitty reached inside her breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Rogue who hardly gave it a second glance.

" Yah cain't juss run out on a rail, Pryde. He doesn't deserve dis from yah." Rogue was vaguely aware that she was fighting for Piotr, and therefore losing miserably.

Kitty went back to staring out the window. "I know." Suddenly, the carriage came to a stop. Outside, the train station could be seen from Rogue's seat. "Perhaps in another time, we could have been remotely happy together. But some things come before love. You should know that from running alongside Remy." She pried open the carriage and Rogue watched as Kitty stepped out and waited as Bobby unloaded her things. "When you find what you're looking for, you best take off. Run from Remy as far and as fast as you can, and you might never get yourself hurt." She picked up her suitcases and smiled sadly at Rogue who just stared, dumbfounded and outraged all at once. "Take care, Rogue. Remy was wrong, you know; you could dance some pumpkins after all." And she went on her way, a suitcase in each hand, her pelisse pitched out by the wind. Rogue threw open the carriage door and stepped out, watching in wonder, but at a loss of what to do with a girl who had clearly made up her mind to leave once and for all.

When Kitty disappeared into the sea of people on the platform, Rogue opened the paper the girl had given her and saw that it was the missing person poster which had been on Kitty's vanity, dated a few months back and advertised by a Mr. and Mrs. Pryde from Deerfield, Illnois. Something clicked inside her mind as she gazed into Kitty's picture smiling back at her, and Rogue didn't know why, but she was suddenly dashing in the opposite direction, wanting—needing to find Piotr Rasputin.

* * *

**23. Three o' Clock Train to Chicago**

**Kentucky: 1877**

The train lurched forward, suddenly, snapping her eyes wide open. The movement dragged Kitty from sleep; she rested her head on the cold glass of the window and wiped at her eyes, her mind numb and her mouth dry.

She was on the three o' clock, heading straight to Chicago.

Again, she drifted, but then she made the mistake of remembering where she was heading and her heart took off like a piston, drumming into her head until all she could see was Durham falling away outside her window, her plans of California buried right alongside Lance, and the saloon given away like a pair of socks she didn't need.

He had not come to see her off.

Deerfield would have rain by now. It would be pretty with orange and red leaves draping the sidewalks, a brisk, familiar chill riding in with the fall. The wind would be so cold, your very bones would freeze.

But he had not come to see her off.

Kitty didn't need this town. She was the air, could blow away with the wind if she wanted, but a train was quicker. No one would miss her.

Probably, she planned her escape with nothing to lose. She skipped over details, pondered reason after reason until she was determined to leave completely. No one would miss her.

That's where it all went wrong.

Kitty had it in her the moment she went into that shack, that she would be able to skip right out, unscathed and intact, her head on right and just as sharp as when she went in. But it didn't turn out that way.

There was something sad looming in those bare walls, a certain loneliness that settled between the floorboards, cold and worn and silent with secrets that pointed all to her.

Kitty found her old room boarded, locked; she took a chance and phased right when Piotr came through the front door. She knocked into his many portraits stacked and abandoned, found a letter among them, and sat down to read it.

And when Piotr ripped through his own barricade outside that door and tore through the lock, Kitty stared at him as if seeing him for the first time and didn't know what to think.

"What happened, Petey?" But she already knew. Things had changed. Worse, a man fell in love and the rest was history.

They spoke in hushed whispers.

Piotr apologized about Lance. As if he had to. He was blundering, blubbering; everything she didn't want, he was. And yet, something struck her suddenly, a memory of some sort, of two strangers who became friends in that very room. And it haunted her, because it was a happier time. Happier than she ever was in Kentucky.

"He talked about you." A smile, faint and small but there, appeared on his face. "All this time, I thought you loved him for the profit he made, robbing those trains." And then the smile disappeared, replaced with melancholy. "I know better now."

That was Piotr, so polite. So contrite. He was sweet and gentle and it would be a real shame to break such a man's heart. It was always harder with the nice ones, because no matter which way you turn, you can't find a sore spot on them. But you can't keep them either.

But it was so difficult. There was love there, so cosmic, so grand that it caught her off-guard and knocked her senseless. She knew he loved her. A fool could see it plain as day on his face. It was all in that look.

She saw it in those bare walls of stale, water-stained wood, the boarded up room with his paintings carefully placed and safely packed away. She saw all of this, saw it and for the life of her didn't know what to make of it.

"I'm leaving," she told him, from one sensible person to another. They both knew she couldn't stay. There was nothing left to keep her in Kentucky. Lance was dead, buried along with their reckless dreams of California and fruit crops and mutants. Piotr himself told her she was an intelligent girl; she could come and go when she pleased, could be lifted by air and clear out of Kentucky. It wasn't that she had gotten too good for this town; she just wised up and began thinking backwards.

Kitty always said she believed in love, believed it right and worthy and hers and every other thing a girl could hope it could be. She blamed love for taking her to Kentucky, blamed it for starving herself sick when she ached to see Lance, and now she saw it in Piotr, in the bare walls, in the abandoned paintings lining the room she once took residence in. Guilt seeped into her heart and she got to her feet.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. My train leaves in two hours and I still need to pack." Sunlight, dense and pure, streamed through the only window in the room. He was gazing at her now, seeming distant, certain, and perhaps a bit sad. Kitty swallowed hard and tried to be positive, but that long stare caught her in a place where she could not look away.

They stood there for an eternity, it seemed, until at length he finally spoke.

"Where to?" Dad-blame it, could he not stop staring? Kitty fidgeted uncomfortably beneath his gaze.

"I'm heading home. Even wrote my parents to wait for my train". She had been so sure that this was what she wanted. For weeks she had been planning her grand escape from this hopeless little town where the coal dust could coat your throat so thick, it could choke you. She was ready, Kitty told herself, over and over again and pinned the Missing poster on her mirror and bought her train ticket a week in advance, placing it on her nightstand in case she ever woke up and failed to remember that she did not belong here. The saloon was given away to Tabitha and Lance was let go, and there was nothing left in Durham, nothing at all to hold her back.

She saw him and forgot.

They had not spoken once since she left his side two months before. She might have seen him passing by, a cap on his head and pick at his back, but there were always distractions—excuses that kept her clear out his way. Perhaps she thought of him occasionally when drawing up water for the horses or helping Bobby stock the vodka, but never had she given much thought to the miner who had faded away as quickly as he came.

But when she saw him dancing with Rogue, something sweet and sad throbbed in her heart, and everything she kept back came flooding forward. She had been so sure that he would never give her a second glance and she was determined to keep it that way, but seeing that shack and its bare walls and boarded up secrets made her think otherwise. Suppose he had actually loved her all this time and she never even had a clue.

It was why she went into that mine to draw him out herself. She forgot why she kept away all this time; constantly reasoning with logic and thinking with her head, just her head, that Piotr was a part of her past. He had given her a reason to move on, her independence; that no man, not even he, could keep her tied down and there was no reason to feel so rotten over something so obscure as love; and now, when she could have made him proud, she saw him crumble, and the irony of it all was so heavy it might have crushed her.

He smiled—actually smiled—at her. "You told me you would never return there. What made you change your mind?"

She credited that to him, but didn't think it was appropriate to say. "It's something I've been meaning to do on my own…and now that Lance…" She broke off, her throat tightening so quickly, it loosened tears from her eyes. "You see why I can't stay. There's nothing left for me here." That, she realized too late, was not completely true. In fact, the only reason holding her back was standing right in front of her. But her words took its toll; Piotr grimaced outwardly and his face hardened almost automatically; he quickly dropped his eyes to avoid meeting hers.

"Of course." He nodded, making himself believe it. "Go then." He took a hold of the girl at arm's length. "Go and forget this place. It never did you right." _I never did you right._ He did not have to say so for her to know that was what he meant.

"I didn't write that note," she said. His eyes flashed.

"I know that now." He absently kicked at the floorboards, making them creak. "And I wonder how it would have been if I had known then."

Something gnawed at her, and there it was again, that sad, forlorn stare that sent her reeling between determination and guilt. "Piotr…"

"Of course." His arms fell limp to his sides. "I take it you are leaving for good."

"Yes." She had been certain there would be yelling on his part. Confessions, proclamations of love, anything to keep her in Durham. But he just gazed at her knowing that there was no use in trying. She would not go to him. Lance had barely just died and she scheduled herself to leave this town today. The timing, as it turned out, was just all damn wrong.

"Well, Kitty." He crossed his arms and nodded. "Well. Good-bye." He stuck out his hand and shook hers. She watched his face carefully, but Piotr would not meet her gaze again. He had already moved away, and now the space between them was a chasm, a giant yawning hole that stretched as far away as he stood from her.

She wanted to run, to close the distance between them, but she knew it would make no difference. He could not change her mind because it was already made up. And what more could she do? If she had broken his heart before, it could not possibly compare to what she was doing to him now.

Kitty walked out. She would not look back.

And now? After all that was said and done with good riddance and happy trips and swift good-byes and that haunting, persecutory glare from Rogue, would it have been any different if Piotr had never received that confounded letter and she had not been so proud to see him herself?

She looked frantically from her window, searching the straggling faces, those happy, sad, relieved, worried faces, all rushing past her window as the train picked up speed. She found not one of them familiar.

He had not seen her off.

Would it have been different? That notion, that possibility, that opportunity now thrown to the wind, gnawed at her viciously. There would be no telling from a place that buried its secrets along with its dead.

And the train charged forward and took Kitty with it.

_All this time I knew that there was something missing_

_And only one thing left to do_

_Had to leave behind this life that we've been living_

_The only thing left there was you_

_It's gonna make it hard to tell you that I'm leaving_

_Now that I know just how much you care_

_You've finally gave me one good reason_

_And I suppose being alone, is my worst fear_

_And staying here is my worst fear. (1)

* * *

_

**24. Move on Out**

**Piotr's Shack, Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

"Piotr!" She was running against the wind, her hair whipped out and falling all over face. Rogue ran up the porch steps breathlessly, calling his name and threw open the door to find Remy LeBeau at the other end, pulling on his trench coat and looking rather peeved to see her show up so late.

"Where is he?" She pushed passed Remy and ran to each room, only to come up short. "Where did Piotr go?"

Remy shrugged, smoothing out his collar. "No idea."

Rogue whipped her head around and stared at the thief in dismay. "Dammit Remy, now's not dah time tah fool with me."

"Who's foolin'?" He walked up and took her arm. "But we've got t' move on out of here, Rogue. I risked it waitin' f' y' t' show while y' nursed y's poor, tender heart back at t' saloon."

This seemed to bring her to her senses. "Leave? Now?"

"Y' heard me." His hold was tight around her wrist and she struggled to stay back.

"Now hold on, Rems, we cain't juss high-tail outta here so fast. Ah need tah talk tah Piotr…"

"Now's not de time t' be de hero, _chere_. We cain't wait f' him. I caught word thet de law's been chasing us, and it's pretty damn close t' gettin' us good."

"But Kitty's left town and Piotr's got tah stop her."

"See what I mean? Y' cain't juss stay here and git caught, _chere_. If Piotr loves her, he'll follow her home."

"So yah knew." She pulled free of his grasp and faced him angrily. "Yah knew she was leavin' and yah never told him?"

"You're probably all rattles and horns more than Petey," Remy observed, and cracked a smirk. "I like y' riled." That earned him a punch in the gut.

"Ah'll stay an' wait f' him."

Remy rubbed at his throbbing stomach and returned, "an' what will y' say when the police catch up here? You'll put Piotr in a bind, thet's what. He'll be arrested right along side y' an' they might juss hang him too."

"Ah said Ah'm staying!" She pushed him away from her, hard.

But Remy was obstinate. "An' what if he never comes back?"

Rogue gazed up at the thief, doubt suddenly clouding her eyes. "Is dis something else yah know and never told nobody?"

Remy smiled and carefully fitted his arm around her. "A hunch. If Kitty ain't here, Piotr might not stay. So who knows? Maybe he's heading after her right now and out of Kentucky as we speak."

Rogue had not thought of that. She stood there feeling suddenly very tired; after all, she had run the whole way to get there, and so she leaned into Remy who kept her close at his side.

"We should at least leave a note," Rogue conceded.

Remy smiled and reached for a newspaper, a pencil suddenly appearing in his hand. "Thet's more like it."

"Tell him Ah'm sorry we couldn't stay." She curled her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. "Tell him Kitty's gone on home and dat he should do whatever it takes tah get her back. And dat Ah'll always remember…"

"_Putain_, Rogue, I cain't write a fuckin' novel…" He tore out the paper and placed it on the kitchen table so that Piotr might see it. "It ain't proper, but we're in a hurry. He'll understand."

So they hit the road again, on another horse Remy had stolen, with the wind howling its regrets behind them.

* * *

**25. Fooled by a Friend**

**Durham, Kentucky: 1877**

Piotr Rasputin, in the meantime, had taken to watching the stars appear as he headed back to his place from the train station. He had gone to watch the three o' clock train chug away, taking the only thing worth wanting out of this lonely town. He saw her load but stayed out of sight, looking from a distance as he had done this entire time.

And from a distance, he watched her go.

There were many things he wanted to say. He could have told Kitty the truth; that he stayed in Kentucky as long as she did, until she might see him in a different light. But as long as Lance was in the picture, there would be no room for him, so Piotr waited for the day when she might give him a chance.

He wished he had known better. He should have been running down those roads, shouting her name and telling her how much he loved her. He could not do so now. It would ruin her plans for leaving, a plan he no doubt spawned from their conversations. She had given up on starving herself and waiting on Lance. Now, all she thought about was going home.

Piotr saw it in the way she stared at him, pleading—imploring him to understand. She could not stand to stay here. She deserved to run back to where she came.

And how he wanted to follow because he could not convince her to remain in a place she hated, but she had said she wanted to do this on her own.

Sometimes, he was so in tune with her feelings, he forgot his own. He watched and loitered long after she was gone, deciding what to do now that there was no point in staying. He could leave also. He could find work in the West and probably pick up painting again. Yes, he could do that. He could even sell his work, for side profit.

Piotr was thinking all these possibilities as he entered his shack, the sun well down and the stars dappling the evening sky overhead.

He found his quarters empty, void of all company, and it shook him to realize that everyone was gone and he was the last to leave. He found the clipped newspaper on the table and read it.

_Piotr,_

_We've gone to the North. If anyone asks, you don't know the likes of us. Take care, friend; we will see you again one day._

_Remy and Rogue_

Piotr smiled briefly, knowing Remy was always on the run; it was in his nature to wander. And then he noticed something he never thought about before; it was the writing, yes, the handwriting that struck him. It was familiar. He searched for that letter that was not from Kitty, the letter that he had read over and over again and cursed and pondered and analyzed inside and out. Piotr grabbed both notes and compared the two side by side.

It was uncanny.

They were written with a like hand.

"Remy," Piotr said. His friend had been deceiving him all along, probably from the day they first met as miners.

And he had taken the Rogue with him.

* * *

**26. Bribe**

**A few months before, Maddie's Saloon for Pleasant Chaps: 1877**

Kitty was dancing on stage with the rest of the girls as Remy took a seat across from Lance Alvers, who sat languidly behind the table. He wore a kind of malicious expression that only Remy knew had to do with Kitty Pryde.

"I need your help," Alvers said, his voice sounding almost desperate.

"Help." Remy said the word slowly, knowing no good could come from this meeting. Lance nodded, crushing his lips together.

"I know your side job. I know you find mutants to report to Magneto."

"Oh?" Remy leaned forward, looking as though uncertain whether to kill him for knowing this or listen to what he had to say.

"And I need your help."

"Ah." Remy shifted back into his seat, a serene smirk stretched across his face. "A bribe, then."

"I know where the Legend resides."

Remy smiled at him sympathetically. "That's a myth, _mon ami_."

"Rumor has it he lives with a girl. Probably his daughter."

"Probably." Remy feigned boredom. "And what do y' want in return f' his location?"

Lance cocked his head at the stage. "My girl's been straying." He nodded at Kitty Pryde who smiled his way. "She don't act the way she used to."

"Well, thet's probably because y're never here."

"That's not the point," Lance spat, giving him a murderous look, although he was heading back to California that same evening. "She's in cahoots with that miner friend of yours."

"And y' want me t' keep them apart?" Remy gave Lance a sympathetic look. "Mebbe if y' gave up de West and the Scarlet Witch y' could do thet y'self."

"I'll tell them if you don't." Lance set his teeth. "You've been giving information about them to Magneto. I'll tell them and you'll never be able to come back here."

Remy snorted. "I'm surprised y' aren't including y'self in de crowd, _mutant_."

"I've worked for Magneto before. He knows about me by now." Lance turned his hat over in his hands. "I'm losing her, I know, but I can't give up the Gang right now. Buy me time, Rems, just this once."

Remy stole a glance at Kitty who was taking a bow with the other dancers, and might have told Lance there wasn't much he could do, but then again, he was not entertaining any good intentions at the moment. "All right, Alvers, I'll help you. Reckon y' can put thet pretty location in writing, eh?"

Lance took a moment, penning it on the table: Caldecott, Mississippi.

"Ah." Remy said, smirking. He looked up at the robber with a settled gaze. "Y've got y'self a deal."

Lance knew Remy would do the job, and do it well. He was known for this sort of thing. And Lance was confident the thief would not let him down.

Because unlike Piotr, Remy's timing was always right.

* * *

(1) Lyrics from Rascal Flatts' _My Worst Fear_

allyg1990:Welcome to my very messed up world of mutant romance then! I am planning some Romy in the future (maybe as soon as the next chapter?) but being that Remy is, well, Remy, things might just not end up the way they could...or will they? Thanks for the positive remarks and I hope you keep coming back for more!

ishandahalf: Thank you for the review; like you said, it's been awhile! But I'm glad you're still around when this story does make a chapter debut :D I debated a bit with Lance's dying, with all those Lancitty shippers out there, but I figured that if I at least gave him a chance with a POV, that should even things out a little. It must've worked because people miss him...

Verre: Hmm, I wonder if you saw this chapter in your near future also :D I agree though: Remy definitely needs more screen time, and I hope some tidbits from this chapter gave you a hint as to what Remy might be planning for Rogue. I think that fits the bill perfectly for a good Romy sequence to come! Oh, and here's to hoping the finals went well!

ShadowFax999: Interesting. I just might use your Scott idea...;D

me: Thanks for noticing...I've always been a bit one-sided when it comes to Lance, so I thought I'd make him more than a jealous, girlfriend-abandoning shallow drunk and give him actual feelings. And I think it turned out all right.

Doesn't Matter: Why, thank you very much; it keeps me confident in my story when I see returning reviewers like you. Oh, and your comparison of Remy to a kicked-puppy--well, I would look forward to more of that, btw.

Crack4sure: Well, you have to admit, he was fun when he lasted...

Thank you all for your continued support! Your reviews mean so much to me!

Join me next time to see where their adventure takes them now, probably a detour to safety...or treachery. Stay tuned!

* * *


	12. Twelve

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Half-rewritten and riddled with Romy, I was compelled to do more work with this chapter. A walk outside in the muggy heat inspired me to craft what I felt was desperately missing from the beginning of Part Four. There was a very important relationship to establish and so this revision was made. I just hope it's believable and convincing; that you simply can't help but read on. By all means, please Enjoy!

* * *

**Part Four: Appalachian Trails**

**1. A Looming Danger  
**

**Foothills of Appalachia, 1877**

Two in the afternoon and they had come by a river that ran southbound for miles up ahead. Remy took it upon himself to find food and walked into the water after removing his boots and trench coat and rolling up his sleeves over his arms, as Rogue, realizing his intentions, tied up her skirts and decided to join him.

"Do yah know what yah're doin'?" she asked the thief, suppressing a shiver as she walked barefoot into the river's cold reaches.

Remy gazed at her with his cowboy hat lowered over his devil eyes. "Do y'?"

"'Course not."

"_Mais_. Nor do I." He waded through the waters waist deep, grinning at her in his bright, boyish way. "Nothin' but steamin' swamps an' crocodiles an' snakes t' eat y' first down in de Bayous."

They waited awhile in silence, listening to the calm of the woods, the feel of river mud beneath their feet. Remy then grabbed a scrap of something from his pants pocket and charged it, sending the small explosive into the water. It went off and they both looked but it was clear that it did little to help their cause.

"Damn. We'll be here all day," he murmured before disappearing completely underneath the surface. Rogue hurried over, her skirts heavy now with water, and called out for him. No answer. Desperately, she bent forward and moved her arms through the water, feeling for him.

"Remy, yah fool. Where'd yah go?" And then something pulled at the hem of her dress and dragged her under.

Fighting now, she broke through the surface, gasping for air, hopelessly drowning in fabric. Another force just as strong plucked her upright and she could just see LeBeau, drenched and laughing at her, at them, and she turned on him, mad as hell. Rogue gave a cry of rage and threw herself at Remy, knocking them both back under the water, making it very clear that she meant to drown him.

"Stop. Stop! I cain't breathe," he yelped between gusts of laughter and his arms grabbed her forcefully so as to keep from hitting him.

"Serves yah right! Yah done near kilt me!" She struggled vainly against his grip but he was stronger than she remembered and his hands Indian-burned her arms through their sleeves.

"_Non_, Rogue. I only scared y'…but suppose dat's worse, eh?" Rogue went very still, paralyzed in his hold. She was cold and soggy and her hair was an ugly sopping mess that clung to her cheeks and neck. And when she caught Remy's eyes staring at her, she noticed his smile had softened a tad and there was a kind of admiration on his face that made her suddenly conscious of how she must have looked at the moment.

"Stop starin' at me lahke that," she hissed, right before he held up his hand just inches from her face. Rogue froze. She wondered if he meant to touch her or stroke back her hair, and she was suddenly engulfed with a desperate fear of the unspeakable danger of his audacity, but also with a longing to know how his hand might feel against her skin. And then, quick as only a thief could, he dropped his hand into the water and brought up a sizable fish, still squirming in his grip.

Staring at the catch, Rogue went wordless and was overcome with an overwhelming sense of disappointment as the moment between them vanished.

"Oh, come now, Rogue; don't look so surprised," he joked gently, releasing her and rising to his feet. "At least we'll be eatin' tonight." And he went along his way, perhaps wondering how he might gut the wretched thing, ignoring how Rogue lagged behind, still sitting motionless in the middle of the river. She was struck with how easily he moved from one thing to another, as if turning a page of a book, expertly crafting his experiences so that they moved by him, not with him, and she herself felt disjointed, as if she were another boring chapter that he skimmed and chose to disregard. Feebly, the girl rose from the water and was compelled to follow him unto land once more.

**…**

Remy poked the skewered fish and knew at once it was finally fit to eat. He called for Rogue, wondering where she had gone, half-wanting to get along but forcing himself to stay for the night, more tired than he would admit to save face in front of the girl. Always for a girl, he vaguely realized, and that should not have surprised him. He found her lying fast asleep by the riverbank, her wet things set aside to dry in the afternoon sun. She had peeled off her drenched dress and corset and lay freely in her undergarments, her body startling fair against the green crabgrass growing alongside the water.

Remy regarded her for a moment, sensing that this was a girl who seemed to change as gradually as the seasons. He noted her slicked auburn hair with its pale stripe, the way her eyelids fluttered when she turned in her sleep, her limp, lanky limbs and delicate (yet very capable) hands. She might have been a Southern belle in another life, well-to-do on a cotton plantation, dressed in a hundred layers of fabric despite the heat, and married, maybe, to a Confederate soldier. Or a girl of rustic Gaelic descent, with skin that never tanned but scorched in the sunlight, who somehow, by some wild twist of fate, wound up quite alone on American soil.

And when he caught himself admiring her, a girl he might've cared less about, he rested a hand on the fabric of her sheer dressing gown, meaning to wake her.

But of course, he got distracted.

Remy noticed her heady plush skin stretched beneath the softness of the cotton, how vulnerably human she really was, and his mere touch was as fatal as though he had intentionally pressed his bare hand against her naked skin. An irrepressible need cuffed him then, arresting his thoughts to near oblivion, and he suddenly wanted so desperately to reach out and _feel_ her. Just touch her. She was a girl after all, unforgivably feminine despite her ability to harden herself to humanity, her grit and ways so akin to Logan, while her miserable mutation made her almost incapable of trusting herself. He realized then how very pretty she really was, despite what thoughts he had formed about her before today.

So when he considered how she grew to like Piotr instead of him, how the very mention of the miner made her quiet and despondent and strangely affectionate, Remy wondered why she never thought of _him_ that same way. And though he did not have to prove himself to her—surely this girl was none too different from other _femmes_ he ever met in his lifetime—he felt that he should. Because he would never forgive himself if he did not at the very least give her a try, assured that nothing could ever come of it. Love, of course, was only a word, and he was certain he could never associate the likes of _her_ with its meaning.

"Remy?" The girl had woken up and saw him sitting there like an idiot with his hand against her flank, enraptured with the very thing that might've killed him. Quickly, he removed the offending hand, but not before she gave him a curious glance. "What is it?"

He raced to recover himself, but knew, forthright, that he was blushing. Hard. "Supper's ready," he coughed, standing up and creating a large berth between them. Rogue just looked up at him, still dazed from dreaming.

"How long yah been sittin' here?" Not suspicious, not yet. She knew he couldn't do a thing to her, not even if he wanted to. Not while she was so generously exposed like this. But he sure as hell was tempted.

Remy smirked, feigning indifference though his palms were sweating and his legs felt rigid as he stood. "As long as y've been asleep."

She narrowed her lovely eyes and scoffed at him. "Dirty swamp rat," she called him, and Remy knew things were set right once again. _Mais_, at least, for the time being.

**…**

Fall was near approaching; Rogue could feel it rustle in the winds, carrying scents and colors reminding her of home. Remy was probably sensing as much and expecting worse—he took on a worried glance at the sky every now and then, as if looking for clouds and knowing rain and sleet weren't too far off.

They sat around in the tall grass, listening to the water run and avoided looking at each other as they ate the fish between them in silence.

Rogue was the first to speak once she was full and waited for the thief to finish. "Rems, Ah've been thinking." He cocked his head to let her know he was listening. "Yah ever git tired of running all across these States and never settlin' and livin' only day to day?"

The thief shrugged. "Are y'?"

Rogue looked out into the sky. "Reckon Ah don't care for it so much." A moment passed before Remy sat himself up and she saw his face had suddenly become animated and knew dishearteningly that he would, once again, manage to make her feel dumb.

"_Merde_. All this time y been thinkin' 'bout me?" Rogue made a face and Remy's smile widened. "Thought y' were a bit preoccupied, wonderin' after…someone else."

"Petey." She didn't look at Remy when she said had said so. It had been the first time she had mentioned him since they left Kentucky, and his name left a certain sadness in the air, mostly because she missed him.

Remy nodded. "_Oui_."

"Ah juss hope he's doin' all right with Miss Pryde is all." Remy chuckled at that and Rogue demanded to know what in Sam Hill was so damn funny.

"_Ga lee_. First y' want him all t' yourself, an' now he's all f' Kitty's taking. Y're juss as messed up as de rest of us."

But Rogue was indignant. "Yah don't know how awful it's been for him. He's still got her letter."

Remy quit laughing. "Is that so," he murmured quietly, his thoughts wandering elsewhere.

"But Kitty said she never wrote it."

"And y' believe her?" Remy's chuckle was short and mirthless, earning him a scowl from Rogue.

"Yah think this is all very funny, ain't it? Kitty had her share of things to say 'bout yah too, yah know."

Remy looked at her doubtfully. "An' juss what did Kitty tell y' about me, eh?" He challenged her with a smile. "Good things, I reckon."

Rogue snorted. "Actually, she told me tah run."

"Run? Thet's de best advice she got? Reckon a horse'd be faster…"

"From yah," Rogue clarified evenly. "She told me tah run from yah."

"Really?" Remy shrugged, obviously unaffected by such advice. "Lotta good thet's done."

"Well, Ah wasn't gonna take her advice anyway."

A moment passed as Remy considered this. "So why don't y'?" The way he said it dared her to just shove off and leave. "Why hasn't de Legend's Kin taken a horse an' run away from me? You've got two good legs an' enough sense t' know which way y' need t' go. An' y' can mount a horse well enough too."

Rogue looked at him questioningly and Remy shrugged again. She never really thought about it before.

"Ah…don't know." And then she mulled it over. "Suppose…suppose Ah'd rather go along with yah. Feel safer…Ah reckon." This newest revelation sent Remy deep into thought, and he seemed almost roiled by her words, looking uncomfortable to be sharing the same fire as her. That perhaps he didn't deserve to be traveling with her because his heart was invariably in the wrong place.

"Rogue," he said after a long pause, suddenly sounding very serious. "Where y' headin'?"

She was caught off-guard by such an important, looming question. It had been almost two months since she met him back in Alabama, trusting him dumb-blind to take her to the station where he surprised her by taking her this far instead. The man took her along and made her wild, meeting mutants and chasing a trail neither of them could see. He had never asked where she would go while she never thought to tell him, so it shouldn't have surprised her now when he finally wanted to know what she wasn't so sure herself.

"Ah suppose…North," she replied hesitantly.

"An' what's up North? Or am I allowed t' know?" Remy's eyes seared into her face and she had no choice but to look away.

"Logan told me to go up North tah look for a Charles Xavier. That's all Ah know." Rogue saw Remy turn away, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Have yah heard of him?" She asked, sounding much too hopeful for her own good.

Remy noticed her looking and shrugged. "Cain't say I do," he finally replied, staring dead ahead into the fire. "He might've been talkin' 'bout anyone."

"But this one might be a mutant…even the Scarlet Witch had heard of him. She told me she saw him in Texas. The man exists."

But Remy was unconvinced. "What's Southern blood t' Northern folk anyway? They don't care for our slow ways, holding our history with the Peculiar Institution and being Secessionist traitors against us. We're all classified as 'barbarians' and up-to-no-good, they say. Logan told y' t' run North? Load of good that'll do y'."

"So that's what it's like? Big cities and tall buildings and ocean ports and mean people?" Rogue had never been to an actual city; maybe the local town, for Caldecott was such a small place from the start. The very thought of gracing a city made her frightened and excited and she leaned forward, eager to learn more.

"An' de weather's different: four seasons, not like in the deep South. Not like it at all." He lit a cigarette and she could just see the scar the hit on the window sill had earned him almost two months before. It had healed rather unevenly but gave him a dangerous air, along with his devil eyes and paper-thin lips that eased up into a bewitching smile.

"Sounds like the North done broke yah heart," Rogue said, noting the edge in his voice as he spoke of the place. He glanced at her with his cigarette lit, its trail of smoke floating effortlessly above their heads.

"Somethin' like dat."

Rogue dug the toe of her boot into the dirt. "This about a girl?" She asked cautiously, not truly sure how he would react. She had questioned his ability to love before, and it had shaken him, she realized now. After all they've been through together, she still didn't know him. For all she knew he might have his own family back in New Orleans, a mansion for a house, a fishing boat docked in its swamps, his name known to every whorehouse in the nation. No, Rogue didn't know him at all.

Remy began to roll his trench coat into a tight pack that would serve as his pillow for the night. "_Oui_."

And now Rogue really did feel bad. "Ah'm sorry," she said quietly, meaning well.

He shrugged again, uncomfortable with the concern in her voice. "It ain't like dat." His expression remained cold and closed and he would not look at her. "I ain't de marryin' kind," he finished evenly, stating it more as a fact that he had no choice but to believe.

Rogue watched as he took out his playing cards and shuffled, dealt, gathered them together in a single swipe, and shuffled again. He was changing the subject in his own way, but his thoughts were in another place, and Rogue wondered what they were and why they troubled him the way they did.

"Logan loved a colored woman, back before Ah even knew him. Ororo Munroe." Remy shook his head; he had never heard of her. But he was listening, and tipped his head towards her while holding his deck of cards in the palm of his hand, signaling that she had his complete attention. "She lived in Philadelfy in a green house with a white fence and shutters and roses growing up the walkway. Might've made her an honest woman, but she wouldn't have anythin' tah do with him. He done ran off tah the last place she could've looked."

"Mississippi," Remy whispered quietly, almost reverently. The deep South was not a place suitable for any person of any race after the War, and especially not during Reconstruction.

"She never did, anyway." Rogue shrugged her shoulders. "Figure he might've killed for her. But she never did come lookin'." She glanced up and saw Remy staring at her, the glow of his eyes intensified by the growing darkness settling around them. "It was his fault, yah know; he kept imaginin' she would juss get up one day an' decide tah go lookin' for him. Now, yah ain't Logan and yah sure as hell don't have tah end up lahke him. So Ah guess what Ah'm sayin'…" She cut off suddenly, thinking of Cody Robbins, of Piotr Rasputin, and curiously, of Remy LeBeau, finding his gaze almost repellant; feeling ashamed of what she was saying, of what she was wearing, her two-toned hair and dirty face and borrowed dress and the way she couldn't quite meet his eyes. For it finally occurred to her that this was how he made her feel; that although she hated him enough to hurt him, she still cared about what he thought about her.

"Rogue?" His voice eased her back from her abrupt silence. She risked a glance and found him looking at her with that awful smirk sidling up his face; Rogue demanded to know what he thought was so goddamn funny.

"Y'." But before she could retort, he shuffled his cards and said, "Tell me more about Logan. What was the Legend like?"

His question seemed to ease her frustration. "Quiet," she said after a pause.

Remy gave her a skeptical look. "Thet all?"

"He didn't talk much; not lahke yah—reckon yah could talk him under the table." Remy found that funny and said so. "It's true; he didn't care tah talk, but when he said somethin', people listened. He smoked these cigars, long as yah hands. He lahked tah pick fights; get into fights. An' he lahked his guns. Not that he ever did anythin' but hunt with them. That was Logan."

They smiled at each other for a moment before Remy ruined it by saying the wrong thing. "They said he had super strength. Nothin' could ever kill him." Rogue dropped her eyes and stared at the ground, feeling slightly sick with the topic that she had been more than willingly to join before it all went badly.

"Well. _They_ were wrong."

Remy scrunched his brow, realizing his mistake. "_Pardon_, _chere_. Thet was tactless."

But Rogue refused to meet his gaze. She simply settled into her corner and put her head down, abruptly ending their conversation by turning her back to him. And she said nothing, not when he suddenly joined her side, fitting next to her profile and lowering his voice considerably into a whisper.

"Reckon he was a good man," Remy put in, his voice sounding distant, contemplative.

She felt the warmth of his body behind her and impulsively went rigid. But Remy did not touch her. He simply lay there beside her and together they listened to the sounds of running water and wind rustling through the trees, filling the silence until Rogue forgot where she was and finally dropped off to sleep.

And thus Autumn began.

**...**

He was gone when she awoke the next morning, but found his trench coat wrapped carefully across her body. Shivering a bit, Rogue pulled on the coat and set off to find Remy in a place she did not know. The fog had built considerably overnight so that she could not see so far ahead of her. And when she finally took sight of him standing by the river a few yards away, Rogue started walking towards him, her eyes flitting between his face and his open shirt, and then halted when she knew he had seen her.

Remy slowly unbuttoned his cuffs—one, two—and Rogue drew back, finally realizing he meant to wash in the waters. "Was juss about to jump in, chere. Reckon you wanna watch?" He saw her gaze falter, and she quickly looked away.

"Naw, Rems. Ah was juss passing through." She then started for the woods, but not before Remy noticed the color rise in her face.

"Don't go far, _chere_. Wouldn't trust these woods, if I were y'."

"Why Remy LeBeau. Yah almost sound lahke yah care," she mocked, but before he could retort, she was out of there and out of sight, disappearing into the fog once more.

Rogue kept walking, flustered, remembering and shaking her head at what she had seen. The trees were taller in these woods, taller than the trees down in Mississippi. You could climb these and never know where you'd stop. And the fog never lifted.

So when the girl appeared, Rogue paused in her tracks, amazed to see another human being in a place so deserted, so miserable. Only later did she realize that some people with mean business _intend_ to be in such places.

"Why, hello there." The girl came towards Rogue, her blond hair bouncing in its messy bob. She wore a dark purple cape around her shoulders and a dress to match that dragged across the ground when she walked. Rogue instinctively drew up her arms, somehow sensing danger in her presence.

"Hello," she croaked, if only to be polite.

The girl smiled. "Y're a pretty thing t' be walkin' alone in these woods, _beb_." Rogue tried to veer past her, but the blond just followed, her pace quicker. "Y're trench coat looks awful familiar. Y' travelin' w' someone?"

Men suddenly materialized from the fog and Rogue became vaguely aware that she was being surrounded.

"Wait. I've seen y' before, haven't I?" The girl snapped her fingers. "Y're thet Rogue Murderer gal from Mississippi, now, aren't y'!" She suddenly careened into Rogue, sending her flying to the ground. "Oh! What a find! What a catch!" She stood close enough so that Rogue had to tip her head back to look at her as she waved a handgun in her face.

Her gang closed in around them. Twelve men dressed in black down to their boots with weapon holsters around their waists watched as Rogue struggled back on her feet. A few of them even snickered.

"But _Madame_," said one, cowering close to Rogue and peering into her face, "how do we know she is who y' think?"

The woman smirked and with one fluid motion, pushed the man, sending him hurtling into Rogue. Their faces connected and he fell, twitched once, and then went still.

"Aha," she said triumphantly and gave Rogue a look that could only mean trouble. "I believe we have a winner." And then her expression changed and she drew out a long, terrible sigh.

"But it seems like someone already has dibs on y'. Remy LeBeau, y' scoundrel. Always takin' de good ones." She stroked Rogue's face with the barrel of the gun and drove it into her neck.

"Don't y' hurt him," Rogue sneered, despite her questionable fate at the moment. The blonde's eyebrows shot up and she laughed in her face.

"Hurt him? Y're de one I'm pointin' de gun at." And suddenly, her lips were at her ear and she was saying, "But I've missed Monsieur LeBeau so. I'm sure y' won't mind if we, say, pay him a visit, eh?"

**…**

The early morning had a nip in the air, and Remy found it disheartening to wash in the cold river. But there he was, carefully grooming his face, running his hand against his chin to find the snags of beard growing against his will. He hated beards; he looked haggard and older and when he smiled he could be yawning or frightful, whichever. Remy finished quickly then; the chill had become unbearable for some time now, and he wanted nothing more…

The trees rustled but there was no wind. Remy's head snapped up at the sound, his muscles frozen with hands still clasping a shirt button. The air had suddenly become dank, and the world was so very still that he itched to break the silence. Remy finished dressing and said, "Y' can come out now. I know y're there, so's no use in hidin'."

The trees seemed suddenly to come alive as a girl slipped out, her blond hair in ringlets, held back by a headpiece. She was resplendent in indigo, her cloak clasped at her throat with a golden broach, wary eyes watching him carefully, anticipating his every move. She was beautiful and delicate in a treacherous sort of way, and Remy wanted nothing more than to break her in two.

"Belladonna," he croaked, knowing the past had finally come back to haunt him.

She smirked. "_Comment les affaires_, LeBeau?" Her perfume smelled of summer roses left to wilt in the sunlight. "I see y' travels have not been so kind t' y'. Washin' in a river? How terrifically…quaint." She sashayed closer, and Remy could now see that she wore lace gloves and about her waist, a holster for her Colt .45. "Why aren't y' glad t' see me? It's been awhile." She lifted her hand to touch his face, but Remy immediately turned away, clearly unmoved by her surreptitious attempts at nostalgia.

"Y' up t' no good, Bella." And she scowled at him because he was right. "Trouble tends t' follow y'."

The girl snorted. "Speak f' y'self, _beb_." She fell back for a moment, regarding him. And then her face lit up like the sun on a hazy morning. "But things've turned up! F' both y' and me."

Remy shot her a look that could have melted her very soul. "I want no part of dis." He made to walk away, but she jumped in front of him and blocked his path. He gazed down at her, knowing there was no way in hell she would come this far alone.

"Now, now. I'm askin' nicely, see? De Guild's decided t' earn rewards. Gov'ment rewards. Y' can come along if y'd like."

Remy did not like the sound of that. Their Guilds never had anything to do with the government. Assassins and thieves weren't exactly what anyone would consider legitimate watchmen. Unless…

Remy's heart went cold; he desperately needed to get away. He needed to…And then he saw her, between two of Bella's men, pulling and resisting and catching his gaze, terrified all to pieces.

"What have y' done?" Remy grabbed Belladonna and shook her hard.

"I was tryin' t' be fair, knowin' she's your catch an' all."

"I ain't turnin' her in!"

"Y' see? That's where we can help. Cain't go turnin' in your own kind, now can y'? Might as well snag y' along while they're at it." Belladonna smiled and loosened herself from his hold. "I'll give y' forty percent of de reward. Reckon it's better than most deals I've made."

"I said I want no part of dis, Bella! Y' cain't do dis t' her!" He quickly reached for a card just as Belladonna pulled out her gun. They stood there, weapons drawn, each ready to strike if either so much as let their guard down.

And then the girl laughed.

"_Oui, oui_. I see. Y're _attached_." She let that sink in good; Remy flinched slightly but said nothing. "All right. Fine. Don't burn y' britches, LeBeau, since she means so much t' y'. It ain't dat important anyway." Belladonna turned, as if to leave. "But if I cain't have her," she said, and swung around so that she could aim correctly; gunshots rang out—_Bam! Bam! Bam!_ "No one can."

For a few tense moments, no one moved and all that could be heard was Belladonna working the gun, loading the barrel, no doubt to finish the deed. And then, a cry of seething white rage from Remy, who had stood paralyzed by terror until he saw Rogue fall, and then something clicked inside his head, registering that this had all gone seriously wrong.

He reached into his pocket just as more Assassins came into view. "Damn bitch!" he hissed, drawing out his cards.

Belladonna shot him a sympathetic glare. "Remy, _mon amor_. I tried being reasonable. But y' had t' be difficult an' I don't need her alive…"

Remy refused to hear more. The thief hurled a card which exploded right close to where Belladonna stood, throwing her to the ground. And though she could aim at him precisely, he could blow off her head a split-second faster.

And that was not a chance worth taking.

So she got to her feet and fled the scene. "Shoot him! Kill him! But I want thet body!" Her men ripped out their guns and Remy went ballistic. Cards and bullets flew. Remy fought, his hands clenched into fists, yelling curses and detonating playing cards as if they were bombs, but there were more of them than he could handle and Remy could barely see Rogue lying on the ground just within reach, unmoving…

Firecrackers rang out; the fog seemed to explode into thousands of shiny, bright lights, distracting most of the Assassins who turned to see what had taken place. Remy saw his chance and grabbed at a gun and threw it glowing red into the center. And then, something jumped and landed between two men, sending them running for their lives. Dirt and dust and foliage rained down all around; in such chaos that ensued, Remy paused and noticed that aside from being large and monstrous, the beast was also very blue.

"McCoy," Remy said dryly.

"LeBeau," McCoy returned and shot him a look. "You're ruining my front yard."

Remy did not respond; the Assassins were circling back and they did not stop shooting. He hurried behind the trees as the Beast climbed up them, his unusual arms so quick that he was far out of sight in no time. Remy felt into a pocket and came up cold. He thought of his possibilities and found them all too bleak. And when he realized he could have called for McCoy, the Beast was long gone.

The fog suddenly lit up in dazzling sprays of purple and red and gold, exploding into the air and at the Assassins who fell away from the echoing noise. Remy stood, amazed and apprehensive, breathing hard and listening to the bullets ricochet off the tree, grazing his arms…

"Remy!" The thief turned just as two arms grabbed for his neck and into a tight embrace. Cinder wood and apple cider; he recognized her scents instantly, forgetting the bullets and the Assassins for a moment while the two spun around in awkward, heavy circles.

"Jubilation," he said, and she swung off, running behind a tree beside his.

"Oh Remy, I knew it was you; only you could make such ruckus!" She was laughing and her smile was so wide it might have taken over her whole face.

"Y' shouldn't be out here, _Petit_! It's too dangerous." He was yelling over the pops of gunfire racing between them.

She made a face that was so familiar, it almost made him smile. "You're too kind, Remy, thinking after me. But with nothing to throw, you haven't got much of a chance!" And she ran forward, her arms stretched out, sending colorful explosions before her. Remy glanced in the other direction, just in time to see McCoy ambush the rest of the Assassins, and that was when he sprang for his life, determined all to pieces to get to Rogue.

He found her where she had fallen, crumpled and unmoving, her breathing shallow and ragged. He yelled out her name once and fell to the ground, feeling the blood rush to his head as his heart caught in his throat. She managed a smile upon seeing him and it nearly tore him to pieces, that girl, trying her best to be brave for his sake. Remy scooped her body into his arms and saw how her shirtfront was soaked through and colored crimson red because for all she was—mutant, murderer, miracle—she still bled blood. He felt for the bullet holes in her chest as Rogue closed her eyes, and despite all the hope in the world, Remy knew she would be lost.

"Oh Remy, that was spectacular stuff! You should've seen their faces…" Jubilation stood over him, finally noticing the body in his lap and stared, half-wondering who this dying girl could be. "Oh," she said, her tone a few notches lower as if sensing the severity of the situation.

Remy looked over at the Beast who had come to crouch down beside him.

"McCoy…" His voice pleaded before breaking off entirely.

But Beast was a realist and knew better. He shook his head. "I cannot help her."

Remy cursed under his breath and fitted his arms around Rogue so that she leaned into him. "So y'll let her die?" His tone was accusatory, almost threatening.

"You know that's not true," said Jubilation quietly. "I believe Dr. McCoy, Remy. If he says he can't help, then he can't."

But Remy was indignant. "I won't let Belladonna have her." Something urgent in his voice prompted the Beast and Jubilation to exchange hurried glances.

So McCoy relented. "Follow me." He began to walk away; Remy knew he had no other option than to listen. So he bent his head right close to Rogue's face and said, "Y'll be all right, Rogue, stay with me, y' hear? I'll have y' safe again." And then he hoisted her up and carried her in his arms as Jubilation brought up the rear, following McCoy uphill into the Appalachias.

* * *

_Endnotes:_

Peculiar Institution: Slavery

Reconstruction: Period after Civil War; considered a failure due mostly to Grant's corrupt administration and various attempts of oppressing blacks under new laws and systems.

Funny, how things turn out...grace me with your thoughts and review! And of course, read on...


	13. Thirteen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Thank you for your patience! I've been at it again-_slowly_ piecing this together. We continue through the Appalachias with Remy and Rogue...and a chance at love? Guess you'll just have to read to find out...

* * *

**2. Deader than a Doornail**

**McCoy Residence, 1877.**

The clocks chimed two o' clock in the afternoon, prompting Jubilation Lee to glance at the time. She was standing next to McCoy who was planted firmly in front of a door held ajar as they both peered inside.

"This is so boring," Jubilation whined quietly, completely devastated. "She's been dead since morning and he's _still_ in there. You think he'd come out by now."

"Different people mourn differently," McCoy returned as-a-matter-of-factly. "But if you're so curious, why don't you go in and ask him."

"Oh, corpses! There's probably a smell in there already."

"I thought you were a fan of the macabre."

"Oh, sure; ghosts and wolves and blue beasts are terrific. But rotting flesh? Her face could be half eaten away by now. Not something you want to see every morning. I say, put her in the ground and be done with it."

"How respectful of you," McCoy said with a note of sarcasm, but he was smiling. "But enough about the dead. I believe Remy could use some tea. And you could bring it to him. Go along then. You can ask him where he would like to bury her when you go in."

McCoy turned back to the door then, frowning and wondering what kind of girl could cause a man like Remy to refuse to leave her side.

**. . . **

"Good morning," Jubilation chirped, balancing the tea tray on one hand and closing the door with the other. Her skirts were long, and when she moved they scratched at the ground, filling the silence as she set the tray close by. Remy hardly moved. His head lay against the girl's chest as he held her gloved hand. His eyes were closed, but Jubilation doubted he was absorbed in prayer. After all, there was no hope for this one.

"Oh, Remy. I'm so sorry." Jubilation said this only because McCoy had told her it was appropriate to say. "No really, I understand…I probably would do the same if you or Dr. McCoy died. But then I'd also bury you right quick the same day." She sat down beside him and lifted his cup to him. "Won't you have a drink? You haven't left this room in three days and even Dr. McCoy is starting to worry. Please Remy? We'll bury her in my lily plot in the back tomorrow and then you can come inside and eat something. And then you can see my new wind chimes and you can teach me to fish again because I've forgotten already…"

Remy murmured something. And then he lifted his head and opened his curiously crimson eyes.

"She ain't dead."

Jubilation shifted uneasily. One second. Two. "What?" She hiccupped and had to put the cup down so as to prevent it from spilling all over herself.

Remy beckoned her closer and pointed to the girl's chest. "Wound's healed. Heart's beatin'. And—listen!" The silence was overwhelming as the girl breathed into the stillness. "Alive," Remy said with a note of finality. He sat back and took the teacup to his lips. "So save your lily plot, _Petit_. We're not burying anyone anytime soon." He put his face against Rogue's chest again and closed his eyes, taking the girl's hands in his once more, and as she watched, Jubilation had a sinking feeling that Remy's visit would not be a pleasant one with this unfortunate addition.

* * *

**3. The Girl and her Pig**

**McCoy Residence, 1877**

She awoke to the grunting of a pig which had taken the liberty to pull down her sheets and nibble at her dress. He was a great beast, pink and heavy, oblivious to the trouble he might have caused by rummaging around this sleeping stranger. Rogue went to push him away and found her gloves had been removed. She sat back, aghast and amazed with seeing her slight hands, startling whiter than she ever remembered them. It was an odd sight to see, having gotten used to hiding her touch and therefore her powers behind a pair of gloves that Remy had pilfered.

Rogue looked around. It was a modest room, quaint and electric all at once. A dresser, a nightstand, a chamber pot. The long narrow windows casting brilliant sunlight into the room. And pictures, portraits of flowers and pigs and Remy LeBeau, decorating the walls like an explosion of colors, memories, and life. It was a good room, she decided, if she ever saw one.

The pig was now sitting so that he could peer directly into her face. He looked almost determined to snuff this stranger out; Rogue could've sworn he narrowed his beady little eyes at her. But before Rogue could cry out for help, he was lifted squealing into the air as a girl appeared, her hair expertly pulled back in two tight pigtails. She wore a yellow dress with red suspenders, and the look she cast was of obvious disapproval on a girl she could not, at the very least, figure out.

"Aha! Sorry, my pig's woken you." She bent to set her pet (for Rogue decided the pig was definitely her pet) on the floor. She smelled of firewood and pine trees and eucalyptus which salve she slathered carefully unto Rogue's wound. Her hands bore gloves of her own and Rogue was about inclined to ask how she knew to use them.

"Will that help?" She asked the girl, finding the scent comforting if anything at all.

The girl shrugged. "Dunno. Dr. McCoy says it will stave off infection for the time being."

"Infection?"

The girl shrugged again. "I dunno either. He said it will kill you, though I don't see how anything could with those bullet holes healing in your chest. You might take it up with him, if you're so curious." She nosily screwed on the top of the salve jar and replaced it on the counter by the headboard.

"Is Dr. McCoy…the…blue…"

"Beast?" The girl's mouth hooked upwards in a smirk. "It's all right. He's not much for introductions." She paused before crouching down and scooping up the pig that had gotten itself caught under the dresser. "I'm Jubilation Lee. This is Pig."

Rogue opened her mouth but the girl coolly cut her off. "And I know who you are. Think I've enough sense to read about you myself in the papers. Rogue Murderer; they've even given you a name." She shook her dainty head disgustedly. "The people Remy comes across; might even get himself killed one day helping the likes of you." Rogue meant to explain that she did not intend to kill those people, but the girl did not allow her such luxury. "Swears he wants to help you though I can't imagine why. And now we've got to help because you're part of the package." She carefully set down her pet on the floor and they both watched Pig scamper away as quickly as it could. Rogue would have laughed if she had not felt ashamed to be in Jubilation's presence. "Your dress is in the wash right now, bloodied and dirty, and so are your gloves, else I wouldn't have bothered to remove them. That and I thought you had some sort of defective hand disease I had to see for myself."

She paused so long, the silence became almost unbearable. "So then. Supper's ready. You should join us, of course." And with a terrific roll of her eyes, the girl disappeared into the dark hallway.

Rogue watched her leave, her heart sinking slowly into her stomach and wondering how much better off she really was living than dead.

**. . . **

"I don't see why you need her and I don't see why we need to keep her." Jubilation's voice rang clear into the room and right through Rogue as she walked down the stairs.

"She's awake, then." This from Remy, who sounded almost thoughtful, and when she got to the main room, she found him staring at her as if he had been watching the stairwell all this time, expecting, waiting for her arrival.

Remy put down his cup and got to his feet. She had never seen him look at her—really look at her, with his eyes turned to her face and the smile he only allowed himself on occasion was gentler, kinder.

They stood there for an eternity, staring at each other with nothing to say until McCoy made a funny sound, shattering the moment almost instantly.

"Perhaps you should invite her to sit," the Beast prompted from his place behind his newspaper.

Remy nodded, still mesmerized as if he simply could not rip his eyes away from this vision. He pulled out a chair hurriedly, smiling at her in a dazzled, starstruck sort of way.

Rogue turned her head towards the Beast, noticing he was watching them from the corner of his eye. "Yah must be Dr. McCoy. Yah made dah salve for my wound…"

"If it's gratitude you offer, I am much obliged...Miss…"

She smiled. "Rogue."

"Hmm," he returned, folding the newspaper in his lap. "I thought it was strange how Remy kept calling you so. I never believed you'd actually respond to such a derogatory term." But he nodded at her and smiled. "At any rate, the salve is only a precaution from future maladies and would not have saved your life otherwise. That, I suppose, is still a scientific mystery. Unless, of course, you can heal yourself. History has it that only one other mutant is capable of such powers…"

"I told y' she's different." This came from Remy, who took his own chair and joined Rogue at her side. He caught Jubilation's arm as she was passing by and pulled her unwilling to the table. "So then, you've met my _Petit_."

Jubilation narrowed her eyes and cast them both angry glances. "Don't patronize me. I'm not a child," she snapped. "We all know the mutant should've died." She said this almost disappointedly. Rogue flushed and Remy quickly released Jubilation from his hold.

"She…don't mean that."

"Yes I do…"

"Now Jubilation, it should be best to leave our guests to each other's company. I'm sure they would benefit from a moment alone…come, help me set the table."

Jubilation gave a soft whine but did not allow Dr. McCoy the pleasure of dragging her away. She coldly looked back from the doorframe until McCoy yelled for her and she reluctantly fell away from their view.

"Dat girl hates me." Rogue was sure of it.

Remy was strangely consoling. "She's jealous. She's convinced you will replace her."

Rogue gave him a quick glance. "As what?" But he only smiled and said nothing.

The irony of it all made Rogue unsettled. There were things she knew that she did not know before the incident in the forests, and all she wanted was to tell the thief what she had suddenly learned. "Remy, back in the woods. Dat woman who shot me…"

"Is gone," Remy put in without missing a beat. "She cannot hurt you again."

Rogue shook her head and held his gaze. "Dat woman. She was your wife."

Remy flinched at the word as if Rogue had made an accusation. Whatever he had to say to her seemed wiped clean and all he wanted to do now was get away. She watched him pick up the pitcher, suddenly distracted. "Who told you…?" But she did not know how or why she knew this at all, only that she was convinced it was the truth.

"Did yah love her?"

Remy scowled at the table. "_Non_. She was my wife. Thet don't mean anythin'."

"She tried tah kill me."

"She _did_ kill y'."

Rogue ignored that. "Why'd yah come back fer me? She would've killed yah too."

"She didn't." He looked at her then but it was not the same as before; somehow, he had managed to erect such a perfect barrier between them, so absolute that he had reverted back to nothing more than a stranger, embattled and bitter and belittling once more.

He let out a short laugh, though there was nothing comical about their conversation. "I felt sorry f' you. Always have." He sat back in his chair and did not meet her gaze again.

Rogue stared at him in disbelief. Something terrible pricked at her, blistering and sharp. Any other time she might have shrugged it off or drove her fist into his mocking face. She did not know how this time was any different—but it hurt worse, because she wanted him to care when it was obvious he would not. "Then yah shouldn't have wasted your time." Not knowing what else to do, Rogue left the room, and having nowhere else to go, she returned back to a room that was not hers, to a place where she did not belong, of which nobody cared, and quietly shut the door.

* * *

**4. Water**

**McCoy Residence, 1877.**

"Where'd your lady-friend go?" This came from Jubilation as she rejoined Remy in the living room.

Remy seemed to unfreeze at the sound of her bright, undulating voice. "To her room."

"You mean _my_ room." Jubilation crossed her arms in front of her. She rolled her eyes. "That was some mess you made back there, Remy. You needn't be so cruel to her."

Remy flinched but did not move from his place between the fireplace and the armchairs. He groped his front left pocket for snuff. "You don't like her much either, _Petit_."

"No, I don't like her, but I know you do. Why are you so angry with her mentioning Bella? It's not like she's lying about her being your wife." She stood so that she was taller than Remy as he sat, chewing on snuff and looking into the fire with such numb, unseeing eyes. "Folks of mine, they talk of elements. Fire, water, wind, wood. That there girl, she's got all four, but she's out of balance."

"Jubes," Remy interrupted, sounding exasperated. "I'm tired. You know I haven't slept well in days."

"My point exactly. I've never seen you so agitated. But now, reckon, I understand." She looked pleased with herself and Remy shifted uneasily at her tone. "Almost makes me feel bad for being mean to Rogue." She settled herself before him so that she filled his entire vision. "So why are you so angry with her?" Her question was different, calculated, specifically phrased. She did not wonder why he was angry but why with _her_. Remy would not answer his friend, mostly because he had become unsure of himself, undone by his own tirade. So Jubilation explained: "You're her water, see, and you've carried her because she won't resist. But you better be careful, Remy, because she'll go either way: you water her and she'll grow, smother her and she'll drown. But both ways, you'll lose her."

She left him thinking of things she could not fathom, but knew all too well.

**. . . **

The door creaked on its hinges as it opened and shut in one swift movement. Rogue slowly opened her eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dimness of the room. She had been lying splayed across the bed as if she'd gone limp for some time. When she finally turned her head, she saw Jubilation standing by the dresser staring her down, holding her pig under one arm with a look on her face Rogue did not recognize. But it was not unkindness, and when she spoke, she was considerably milder than their previous meeting.

"I'm here to invite you to the parlor." Rogue opened her mouth to decline, but Jubilation immediately cut her off. "You needn't worry. Remy won't be joining us." She suddenly smirked. "I don't know your Southern customs, Miss, but Dr. McCoy will be awful upset to heat the coffee and have no one old enough to drink it."

She left the door open, her scent of cider and cinders lingering longer than she did. And when she did get up, Rogue found the girl had left her freshly laundered gloves and dress on the table, as a peace offering.

**. . . **

"Come in, come in my dear." The Beast had been sitting in his trusty armchair, but quickly rose to his feet when Rogue appeared by the door, looking uncertain to enter. He urged Jubilation to pour her a cup of coffee and pulled out a seat for Rogue who accepted the drink with shy gratitude. Jubilation snorted, unladylike, and only rolled her eyes.

"I must apologize on Remy's behalf," Dr. McCoy said, covertly flicking daggers at Jubilation before resuming his place by the fire. "As you can plainly see, he's absent for the evening for God knows how long."

"With good reason," Jubilation piped, settling across from Rogue with her own mystery drink. She stooped forward to pet Pig who just stared at her expectantly, as if hoping she would share.

"Where is he then?" She kept her voice neutral but not enough to keep Jubilation from snickering at her. Rogue's eyes fluttered to meet the Beast's stare but could not bear to hold his gaze. She raised the cup to her lips and quietly sipped the bitter drink.

Jubilation tipped her head to one side and said, "He's going into town tonight and he isn't taking you." She said this gently because she did not mean to offend her.

"Ah wouldn't have gone if he had asked," Rogue returned dully, absently tracing the rim of her cup with her fingers.

Jubilation noticed her chagrin, of course. She seemed almost enthralled by her dejection, watching Rogue with gleeful anticipation. "He goes for the saloon and the women every evening during his stay. Oh, don't feel so bad, Rogue. He'd let you come along if you asked."

Something dangerous flashed in Rogue's eyes and she pushed her cup away. "Ah wouldn't." Dr. McCoy allowed the newspaper to droop just enough to shoot Jubilation a look which she just ignored. "Ah know the likes of such mindless girls, an' Ah'm nothin' lahke them."

Jubilation gave her a knowing glance and placed her hand on Rogue's sleeve before Rogue had a chance to move it away. "I didn't say you were. Don't be angry with me, Rogue. True, I hate your guts and your hair and the fact that he brought you here without writing ahead first. And then you took my room and my bed and my privacy and Remy to top it off. But I'm not complaining. I mean, I thought you were replacing me. But I know that's not true. I know because I know Remy. He cares for you."

"Jubilation…" McCoy said, sounding more surprised than reprimanding.

"You've seen it too, Beast, I'm sure." She spun herself right back to Rogue who seemed drained of all color, stung by this notion as if it were an accusation. "Nobody's supposed to touch you. Nobody's supposed to come near you. But he did. He laid his head at your heart and held you for days after you'd "died." Nobody does that if they don't care. He has to care about you." She looked back at McCoy as if seeking his confirmation on such matters.

"That is not your business to say, Jubilation," the Beast said gently. "If Remy feels that way, he would just tell her."

"No, he would not," Jubilation said indignantly, knowing she was in the right, and looked back at Rogue as if agonized at the very idea. "He's much too proud." She sat gazing at Rogue dreamily. "He's never brought a girl to meet us, let alone one he cares about." And then her expression changed and she frowned. "You don't believe me," she said shrilly, as if shocked.

"I don't either," Beast said behind the newspaper he was not reading.

Jubilation was not in the least bothered. "No matter. I'll prove it." She gave Rogue a decided look. "Tell him not to go tonight. He'll listen to you."

But Rogue was instantly stunned. And afraid. "Ah couldn't do that tah him." His time was not hers and he would not want her to interfere with such delicate matters.

Jubilation was insistent though. "But he'll listen to you. He…"

"That's enough, Jubilation. You cannot make our guest do what you say nor can you say how Remy feels. It's not your place." He put down the newspaper and removed his bifocals. "You are excused," he told her with a note of finality.

But Jubilation was not yet finished. As she stood from her chair, she loudly whispered to Rogue, "I know I'm right. You've got to ask him. It's the only way _you'll_ know." She then walked away, pausing only to shoot Dr. McCoy a look of her own before leaving altogether, Pig trailing behind her.

"I apologize, Ms. Rogue, for Jubilation's behavior. As you might have already noticed, she and Remy are very close. She can get carried away at times, defending him like that."

Rogue returned her cup to its saucer. "He doesn't deserve friends like you."

Beast gave a little smile before resuming his story. "She's always been so attached to him, ever since he allowed her to tag along. Her parents immigrated to California to work on the railroads. They were killed in an explosion when she was too young to even remember them. The railroad company was just about letting her off when Remy offered to take her out here. She was eleven years old."

"And he just left her here? With you?"

"She is safer here than with him. He disappears for months and suddenly materializes when he needs something. It's a little game we have, I guess you can say. This is the first time he's brought anyone along with him and I'm not sure what he needs from us now."

"But to let him keep coming back…Ah'm sure it bothers you."

"To no end." A pensive look crossed his face and he removed his bifocals. "But Jubilation is happy when he comes and he brings the world along with him. When you are blue and furry, the world does not come easily to you."

"Is it true, then? Those things she said about Remy holdin' me? Staying with me for days?" The very idea seemed laughable, but she could not help but feel a bit touched by such sincerity. It was very unlike Remy LeBeau, something she might even admire about him.

Dr. McCoy wrinkled his brow and had to admit it was. "But I know Remy enough to see his interests are always fleeting, especially in matters of the heart." He leaned forward with one arm on the armrest of his great chair and said, "My dear girl, I mean this with my sincerest intentions; but I would not get my hopes up for the likes of him. Not as a friend, and certainly not as a lover. He's not capable of keeping people happy for long. It is not his nature."

* * *

**5. Stay**

**McCoy Residence, 1877.**

Rogue looked into Remy's room, watching him through the open door as he tied and retied his bowtie only to take it off and retie it once more. Remy stood in front of the dressing mirror, whistling Dixie, his favorite song she finally realized, and seeing him now made her angry and shy and scared all at once.

"There now, _Petit_. Don't I look de part for tonight…" He looked up at the doorway and immediately realized his mistake. "Rogue." Annoyance seeped into his voice. "Y' know it's rude t' stand out there an' say nothin'." But then he sighed, relenting. "Come in, then, if y' must."

She might have objected or ran the opposite direction, but the invitation compelled her to reconsider. Rogue quietly entered, stopping at an angle where she could watch him in the mirror. The room was prim and neat and smelled of smoldering cigarettes and moonshine, the sound of wind chimes clattering, deafening in the fierceness of the wind outside. Remy, on the other hand, seemed too busy to notice—he continued to attempt tying the bowtie about his neck before suddenly slapping it against the counter of his dresser. "Confounded thing," he muttered under his breath, lifting his head only to meet her gaze in the mirror. "Suppose you wouldn't happen t' do any better."

"Doesn't hurt to try." She walked over and took up the tie, unraveling it as she had done for Logan some time ago. "Logan had a box of these back at dah house. He'd practiced when it mattered or tah be sure he didn't forget. Had me practice in case he did."

She brought the tie around his neck, touching his collar gently with her gloved fingers. Remy looked down at her hands and smirked.

"I see Jubes gave y' back y' mitts."

Rogue scrunched her brow to show her displeasure at the idea. "That was very dangerous of her. She's a lot lahke yah, an' not yah best parts either."

"Why, thet's de nicest thing y've said all week. Y' should've heard de things y' were sayin' when y' were out. Askin' f' tomato soup an' hopin' the cows hadn't crossed into de fields again…"

Rogue pulled at the corners of the finished bowtie, but instead of letting her hands fall away from his shirt, she rested them against the width of his chest. Remy immediately noticed her hesitation and it alarmed him.

"Rogue?" He spoke in a muted whisper. "What's wrong?"

She looked at him quickly before letting her eyes drop away uneasily. Rogue was vaguely aware he had brought his own hands to the sides of her arms, brushing them against her sleeves as if to comfort her. He couldn't possibly understand that what was eating her alive at the moment was his own doing.

"There's nothin' wrong. Ah've juss…Ah've juss been talkin' tah McCoy and Jubilation, is all."

His eyes glowed with uneasy temperament. "_Ga Lee_, put in a few words about me, has he? Or was it Jubes—at least hers are always sympathetic…"

"Said yah head tah town every night yah're here."

"It takes about an hour both ways on horseback, but y' shouldn't lose sleep over me. I've made de trip thousands of times before."

Rogue mustered enough courage to look him in the eye. "Ah wish yah wouldn't go." She felt her voice go hoarse before it went out altogether. The silence on his end made her stammer, and she rushed to fill such a shameful void trying to explain herself. "It's…it's a long walk an' it's getting darker out quicker. It wouldn't be safe tah take dah horse down these hills in such…darkness."

And yet, the silence persisted. When she dared to look again at him, she found him smiling, and it nearly tore her apart. "Jealous, non?" He chuckled and stepped away from her. "Well, y' can come along if you'd like." Rogue said nothing, feeling her heart shrivel into something small and lifeless. Sensing her seriousness, he took her wrist, pulling her so close that she could smell the cigarette smoke on his person. "Y' don't really mean thet." He gave her a hard glance, his eyes searching her for a hint of deceit, of jest. "Y' don't." And when she did not reply, he bent his head so that she could only look away. "It's not your place t' tell _me_ what t' do."

Rogue tipped her head towards his, infuriated. "Ah only wish it. Now let go." She tugged once and his hand jerked with hers.

He sneered at her and dropped her arm away. "Gladly," he said, reaching beyond her to grab his cowboy hat and then turned on his heel, pulling his trench coat on without bidding his friends so much of a good-bye. The harsh bang of the door resounded through her like a clamoring, hollow echo.

Rogue stood there and couldn't decide if she were angrier at the fact that he had left or that he chose not listen to her. She told herself over and over: _don't get your hopes up_.

The Beast had wisely advised her against it, but she hadn't the heart to tell him that it was a bit too late for that. She was crushed, she knew, and that was that.

**. . . **

Oh, she would. Remy walked briskly, clumsily, distracted with his own thoughts. He had forgotten, among other things, his personal playing cards, and he hesitated several times to contemplate whether they were worth the trip back. He would not be able to win all night and he was not prepared to return as penniless as he went. But he could not easily just return either. He had done a fine job at the McCoy residence, making the Rogue miserable at every turn. Perhaps, if he asked her to stay for good when he went on ahead, she would have happily let him go without a second thought. Any other day, he would have left triumphant, satisfied with putting her in her place. How dare she tell _him_ what to do. But today was so sordidly different, so disappointing that he was actually regretting leaving as he did, angry as he was. Remy never thought her feelings would make _him_ miserable. Did she not sound concerned about his leaving? Had she not meant to explain how she knew about Belladonna, only to be uprooted mid-sentence by his own words? _I felt sorry for you_. Replaying it now, he was ashamed of it and he was not exactly accustomed to such a feeling.

"Gettin' soft, LeBeau," he chided himself, and quickened his pace down the side of the mountain.

**. . . **

A few moments later, Rogue could hear the sound of footsteps patter against the wooden floor. Jubilation appeared by the door frame in seconds, unusually quiet and expressionless as she slipped into Remy's room where Rogue sat in his armchair, her back turned towards the girl.

"He ain't here," Rogue said in a controlled, even voice. "He left for town juss now."

"I know." Jubilation crinkled her nose. "The bastard."

It took an enormous effort not to turn around and yell at the girl for being so devastatingly_ wrong_ about Remy. This heart business, as McCoy would call it, was nothing short of foolish. And how frightening, to be so hopeful about the likes _him_, and have nothing come of it. Damn right foolish was what it was. She was ashamed all to pieces and vowed never to face him again.

"McCoy and I were just heading outside for campfire since the wind's died down. He said to invite you if you're not afraid of sitting around with strangers in the dark." She made a ghoulish motion with her fingers and swung her lamp so that the light flickered.

"Or because yah feel sorry for me." Rogue looked once at the girl who had dropped her hands and shrugged.

"Either way, Remy can't have all the fun." Jubilation caught her eye and gave her a measuring stare. "It's only a campfire. Do as you wish." And then she crossed her arms and smiled. "But if you come with me now, I promise I'll be nicer. I'll even share my room and you may borrow my dresses—of course, until we buy you new ones. And you can carry Pig, but try not feed him from your hands—he likes fingers."

Perhaps it was not a fair choice, but neither was willing to argue over such a trivial matter. Rogue slowly got up and followed the girl outside with the Pig struggling to keep up with them.

* * *

Please tell me what you think! Hate it, love it, review it!


	14. Fourteen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Hmm, been awhile, and I apologize to those vigilant for me to return to this story! I've missed you too! So Remy has left Rogue for town and Jubilation invited her to join their campfire and ghost stories. BTW, if you notice the first page has changed; I've decided to add a brief intro to this madness late in the game. That's the beauty of fanfiction! Without further ado...by all means, enjoy!

* * *

**6. Campfire**

**McCoy Residence, 1877.**

"Has Remy ever told you these woods are haunted? Ask Dr. McCoy. He's actually seen the thing. Go on, ask him."

"It's not exactly haunted, Jubilation." The Beast shrugged at Rogue's questioning glance. "A monster roams this place."

"He means, besides himself, of course." Jubilation giggled into her skewered meat. "Gets me every time."

Rogue tried not to look worried, but she was curious. "A monster?"

"Wolfsbane!" Jubilation could not help herself. "It's not safe to go out after dark. Or at least, that's what Beast says to frighten me."

McCoy was ambivalent about it. "Well, it does make for a good campfire story."

"So tell Rogue! She needs to know what she's in for."

Rogue smiled. "Ah ain't afraid."

"They say she's part human, part beast. And she only comes out once in a blue moon…"

"Hodgepodge," Jubilation interrupted, and gave a terrific roll of her eyes. "Skip to the part where she turns into the thing."

"Who's telling the story here?" Beast wanted to know but proceeded in his description. "She has violent yellow eyes and long, gnashing teeth...the girl had never shown her true form, but then, when she was caught by a man who attempted to take her dignity against her will, she transformed into a wolf…and she was never permitted to return home. Shunned as a mutant. So she killed herself."

"It's how many of us go," Jubilation added lightly. Rogue did not question who she meant by "us."

"Sometimes," Beast said, lifting his head and looking off into the distance, "you can hear her weep on the bridge as you pass underneath…or howl at the moon in her loneliness."

"And she eats little girls for dinner!" Jubilation interrupted and squealed with laughter. Rogue gulped, finding her throat unusually dry.

"They say she speaks only in her human form. And she can sense spirits, those that follow us, attached to a life they no longer have." McCoy quit talking then, breaking off into thoughtful silence. Rogue thought about that too, her mind turning to Logan. It always made her sad, how much she missed him…And then, the grass rustled but there was no wind. Someone was coming up the path. Jubilation stopped laughing and grabbed unto McCoy who sat watching the darkness, alert and worried, trying to see into the blackness. For a few moments, nobody said anything. The fire sizzled and popped as the shadowy figure approached.

"Eve'nin'," it said, and they finally could see that it was no monster, no ghost, just Remy LeBeau who seemed to materialize from nothingness. He appeared calm but there was uneasiness in his stance, as if unsure why he was there in the first place.

Rogue shifted in her seat and looked round to stare him straight in the eye. She had to hold her hands to keep from shaking.

Jubilation was the first to answer him. "You're back. So soon." She covertly shot Rogue a triumphant look.

Remy shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I forgot my cards." He could not quite meet Rogue's gaze. "So then. What's going on here?"

"Having our own party," Jubilation sniffed. "We just finished telling Rogue about Wolfsbane." Apparently that was apparition's name.

"Ah. Did y' mention she eats little girls f' dinner?"

"A few times, yes."

"Well." He made to join them but Jubilation suddenly wedged herself before him.

"Now hold on just a moment, Remy. You can't just invite yourself in. You'll need approval." She tipped her head to one side. "Rogue's approval."

Remy flushed and glanced over at Rogue, seated beside McCoy. She caught his surprised stare and smiled, despite herself.

Jubilation crossed her arms in front of her. "If she doesn't want you here, no one will."

Remy looked confused, but was helpless to reject the offer. It was thrilling to see him so vulnerable in a place where he could not simply bow out and forget he ever came. Rogue carefully got to her feet, walking past Jubilation and up to Remy. He immediately assumed a defensive stance, expecting the worse.

Rogue stopped in front of him, leaned forward, and said, "Sit down, LeBeau."

McCoy roared as Remy begrudgingly shook his head, taking great care to seat himself a ways from the rest of them.

"Now," Jubilation said excitedly, "we haven't got the same spirits as your saloon, dear Remy, but cheer up! We have an excellent addition to our party, namely Rogue, and she's agreed to dance with you."

"Dance?" Rogue said, completely caught off-guard.

"And you need not ask for her permission!" Jubilation laughed, expertly strumming her guitar. Suddenly, all eyes were on Rogue, quiet with anticipation for her next move.

"Dat is all good an' well," Rogue said, getting to her feet and gliding over to Remy who sat amused at their display. Rogue stretched out her arm towards him. "Remy LeBeau is a fine dancer. Ah don't actually believe this, but Ah've heard it from his many admirers." And then she yanked her arm away and said, "But Ah've already promised Dr. McCoy the first dance."

"Well played! Well played!" chirped Jubilation and strummed her guitar yet again.

McCoy, despite himself, jumped up and took Rogue's hand almost immediately. "I'd be honored, my dear. For it say-eth in the Bible: 'he who chooses to look on, yearns for all that is not his.' " He threw Remy a look that made the thief shake his head.

"It does not say-eth that anywhere, you crock," Jubilation put in as Beast turned Rogue laughing in his arms.

"Of course it does. Or it should. Certainly _you_ like the sound of it, Miss Rogue."

"Spoken like dah true Scripture itself."

Remy stood up then, smiling. "Y' all are crazy."

"You're crazy!" Jubilation returned, and stopped strumming. She had seen that he was meaning to leave and acted quickly. "Song's over. It's your turn, Remy." Rogue looked at the thief as Beast released her and resumed his place by Jubilation. He picked up his fiddle and placed it on his furry blue shoulder.

Remy, for the life of him, seemed unsure of what to do. "I—don't s'ppose y'd…"

"Yah don't need mah permission, remember." Rogue boldly took his hands and led him towards her. "Or are yah afraid tah hold me?" She challenged.

Remy shook his head and said, "I ain't afraid." He snaked one arm behind her back and firmly grasped her gloved hand in his. He bowed his head forward so that all she could see were his mysterious eyes glowing in the darkness and that slight smile, playfully spread across his face. "See? I ain't afraid."

For a moment, they stood close together in each other's arms; they had never really allowed themselves the opportunity to do so before. Every interaction to this point was aggressive, defensive, meant for combat, neither one able to admit defeat first. So this…this was definitely different.

Rogue felt his hold slacken, seeing now that he was looking at her in a very curious way, as if he too were aware of how near she was, and that, reckon, he just might get used to it.

"Less talk! More dancing!" Jubilation ordered. She then began to play a tune, its cadence faster and more modern than Rogue had ever heard. McCoy soon joined in with his fiddle and the two took off. They danced and laughed at their awkward movements, strangely in sync and in tempo.

_You sit there in your heartache, waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways, you play forgiveness, watch it now…here he comes!_

_He doesn't look a thing like Jesus, but he acts like a gentleman, like you imagined when you were young…_

_...And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live…when you were young… (1)  
_

And as they continued such stirring revelries, someone watched from the bridge in the distance, its figure changing from human to beast and back again to human…

**...**

A few hours later, Jubilation sat before her mirror, dressed to sleep, and carefully undid her braids. Her hair unfolded in such precise curls that Rogue couldn't help but stare in genuine amazement.

"Oh. Dat's pretty."

Jubilation shrugged. "They're just braids. I could do yours up too, if you'd like."

Rogue smiled as Jubilation crawled under the covers. She reached over and plopped Pig at the foot of her side of the bed with little difficulty, considering the size of the animal. He looked quite content as her pet, as much as a pig could be.

"I am so tired. McCoy doesn't usually let me stay up this late. We've got to get to town in the morning." Jubilation drifted then and soon her breathing became even and light. Rogue sat up over the covers for a while after, feeling lighthearted and thinking how happy she had been, seeing Remy walk over and join their campfire, and then dancing with him the rest of the time. Perhaps she didn't give him enough credit. His dancing was decent after all.

There came a knock at the wall where Remy's room connected with Jubilation's. Rogue quickly looked at the girl, already fast asleep. So she quietly got up and softly rapped back.

"Yah should be sleepin'," she chided through the wall. She heard Remy rustle on the other side.

"I was seein' if y' were still awake." She felt the color rise in her face. So he had been thinking about her.

"Awake? What for?"

"Juss wanted t' see was all." He propped himself up against the wall. "Do y' like it here? I mean, they're treating y' all right?"

_Everyone but you_, she wanted to say, but stopped herself. "Cain't complain."

"Did McCoy tell y' about Wolfsbane himself? He's seen it, y' know."

"You people are all the same, tryin' tah scare me silly." She smiled.

"Well, it's true. I wouldn't go out by myself if I were y'."

"Oh, hush. Yah cain't frighten me with dat. Ah ain't Jubes."

"Well, it used to keep her inside. Guess she grew out of it." He laughed boyishly and Rogue had a feeling that he was where he needed to be. A home away from home, somewhere far up where no one could find them.

Rogue rested her head against the boards. She could just see the shadow of his outline through the cracks. "Why'd yah come back, Remy? Honestly now." She heard him sigh but she needed him to answer her. "Yah must have a reason; yah always have a reason."

He paused, as if silently debating what to tell her. "Y' said y' didn't want me t' go."

"An' yah said not tah tell yah what tah do."

"I know what I said." He let out a quick breath. "An' I'm sorry f' it."

"Sorry?" Rogue snorted. "When is dah great Remy LeBeau sorry for what he's done tah a gal lahke me."

Remy said quietly, "Then reckon I must mean it, _non_?"

Rogue absently traced his outline with a gloved finger. "So yah've decided tah have a heart. Suppose Ah should forgive you then?"

"I'll wait, if thet's what it takes."

"Don't grovel, Remy; it's not lahke yah." As if she knew what he was like. She carefully replaced her head against the boards. It felt cool against her skin. "Yah may, however, start talkin' tah me lahke a human being. Ah'd lahke dat better."

"Done."

"An' Ah'd also lahke my pillows fluffed every mornin'…"

"Shit, Rogue." She laughed and he did too. She suddenly felt a serene calm settle inside her heart, the first time in a long time. She wanted to feel him again, his arms around her, holding her close, his eyes watching her, only her. It felt good to be wanted that way.

"Remy."

"Hmm?"

Rogue looked away, although that was not at all necessary. She blushed. "Ah'm glad yah came back."

Remy leaned his head against the wall. "Me too, _chere_."

And when Rogue returned to her bed, Jubilation opened her eyes, having heard the whole thing, and smiled knowingly to herself as Rogue quietly doused the light.

**…**

There was a subtle ache to the way he said it.

_Me too, chere._

He didn't mean to say it, but it frightened him to know she might not be alive to hear it.

Remy LeBeau, how did you become so naïve?

He had made a name for himself out in the world, as a thief, a womanizer, a mutant. Not for awhile had he felt so miserable, being with a girl he hardly knew, who trusted him so thoroughly, he could snap her and mend her as he wished. But he found himself at the other end too, moved by her misery, marveling at her ability to slip back and forth between worlds, out of the cusp of death and back into his life. And he was jealous; of her ignorance, of her insistence to ignore his faults, his vices, and let him take her wherever he went. She never asked questions, became skeptical with his intentions, or confronted him when he knew it might do her some good to know.

He left her angry, determined to drink her away. And turned back, wanting only to see her again.

And she forgave him for saying things he would never say to whores.

He was a wreck when she died. Of course, he would never admit such a thing; but he never left her side, not even after Beast pronounced her dead. Holding her lifeless hands, he crept closer to her silenced face, unable to disturb her or anger her by being so close. And something ugly wrenched from inside of him, reminding him that he was the cause of all of this.

He never felt so bad in his life.

That noise. He should have seen the gun. Known Bella's intentions. He squeezed his eyes shut. That God-awful noise.

He told her he was sorry and she took him back on the condition that he fluff her pillows?

Madness…

Remy sat wide awake, listening to her prepare for bed. He stayed up listening to her sleep, half-afraid he might hear through the walls and find her not breathing. What then? How could he tell her? He would not tell her, he finally decided. He would not relive it, how he feared he would lose her. And that ache in his heart, how he wished it did not remind him of things he could not have, emotions he could not feel, if only to save himself the trouble later, when he would have to leave her for good.

* * *

**7. Peddling  
**

**Appalachian Way, 1877.**

Remy slept through most of the morning, so that when he finally came downstairs, only McCoy was there, seated in his great armchair, reading a newspaper.

"Where're de girls?" The thief had reached the table where his friend sat and immediately went into the kitchen.

"Gone to town to sell my elixirs."

"Is thet right." Remy did not sound too happy with that.

McCoy briefly glanced up from his reading. "I imagine it would be fine for her to go along. It's hard for news to reach the Appalachias and she's safer along that path than the one which she came." He turned a page. "Besides, somebody had to bring me my newspaper, after all." The Beast turned a page and glanced up at Remy who had rejoined him in the common room, eating a slice of bread. "Never went back to the saloon last night, I gather."

"An' miss being in y' company?" Remy settled into the couch near Beast and gave him a grin. A serious one. "I wanted t' give dis t' y', t' show my appreciation f' takin' care o' Jubilation f' me." He placed the small purse of coins from Sabertooth on the table. "Figure she could use a new dress or two."

McCoy eyed the purse and shook his head. He did not reach for it just yet. "I don't know what you're up to, Remy." It was absurd, the kind of attachment he had to this place. And McCoy did not like the fact that Remy could saunter in with a bag of gold in his hand, most likely pilfered. Dirty money, he presumed. But it did no good asking where it came from.

The thief smiled in return. "Y' don't give y'self enough credit, _mon ami_." He patted the Beast on the shoulder as he headed out. "It's not like y' don't know me already." He always said things like that, always vague, disconcerting—the secrecy of it all made Beast on edge and frustrated.

He did not know what to expect from Remy, and that was all he knew for sure.

**…**

Rogue decided she liked Jubilation. If not for her incessant insistence about Remy's feelings towards her, then for her ability to peddle her bottles as if they were gifts from above. They sold thirteen bottles during the morning rush, a variety of bleach bottles and indigestion relievers and eucalyptus salve, standing outside in the dusty road, having set up shop at five in the morning. It was nearly noon before Jubilation started to count her earnings. For all her mischievous ways, the girl was all business when it came to the McCoy brand.

Rogue asked her once what her customers saw in her. And Jubilation replied, with a solemn twinkle in her eye: "They think I'm exotic."

Perhaps. Jubilation had stark, straight black hair which she kept braided in pigtails. She said she was Chinese but did not know the language anymore—lost it, she said, having found it useless on this side of the world. There was a foreign quality about her which she lightly regarded as "Far East Flair." Jade pendants and gold bracelets, all for good luck, all for good measure. Oh, she was exotic, all right. And smart. When they walked about town, Jubilation spoke about her love of the city, her time in California, McCoy's preoccupation with understanding herbal remedies and bodily functioning, and took Rogue to the shop where she had dresses made. But most of all…most of all, she talked about Remy.

And Rogue listened. She wanted to hear more about him, actually, for the little that she knew she felt conflicted, almost troubled. By all accounts, he was a mystery. But she was curiously drawn to him, for reasons beyond her understanding.

Jubilation talked about his love of New Orleans and music, his strategies for stealing and cheating and swindling. He was an expert in all things, it seemed. But Rogue had a feeling not even Jubilation knew the extent of his dealings. Remy did not seem a man to give away too much of himself to one person.

Jubilation brought her dodgers, piping hot from the bakery down the street. She gave Rogue one and helped herself to another, relishing the snack with contentment.

Rogue watched her for a while, her thoughts racing. She finally asked, "Did yah know…did yah know he was married?"

Jubilation chewed thoughtfully, her focus fully on the dodger she was holding. "Sort of. I know for sure it was arranged—Remy insisted on that. It's all part of his former life of organized crime. 'An exchange for peace between warring entities.' That sort of thing."

"Oh." Rogue had not a clue what she was talking about.

So Jubilation rolled her eyes and clarified: "He's akin to the Thieves Guild. His father settled to have him married to a daughter of the Assassins Guild in exchange for peace." Belladonna an Assassin? Rogue should have known—it would explain her precise aim.

Jubilation suddenly tipped her head and glanced swiftly at Rogue. "Jealous, _non_?" she puffed, mimicking Remy's solid Cajun French accent. Rogue smiled; that girl absolutely adored him.

"Ahre yah?" She prodded slyly. Jubilation gave a little laugh and elbowed her playfully.

"Remy's attractive. But he's much older than me. Believe me: I've tried getting around it. And Dr. McCoy would have none of it." She gave Rogue a grin, knowing full well that she would always be his best girl, no matter what. "Besides," she continued, changing the subject, "I've got my sights on someone else. He works the stables in the next town; reckon I'll take you there on the way home."

"Why do yah always defend him? Remy, Ah mean," Rogue wanted to know. Jubilation shrugged nonchalantly. She had heard this one before.

"For the same reasons everyone else hates him." She got up and dusted herself off.

"Yah ever figure everyone could be right about him?" Jubilation raised an eyebrow.

"You're one to talk," she said, and her smile was impudent. "The whole world's against him. Reckon he'd like someone on his side for once."

Rogue snorted, disbelieving. "Does _he_ realize that?"

Jubilation shrugged again. "Wouldn't doubt it's what keeps him coming back. Remy's predictable, Rogue, no matter where he goes or what he says. He'll come round when he's ready." She finished her dodger and licked her fingers, not ladylike at all. "And we'll be there when he does."

**

* * *

**

**8. Hidden Agenda**

**Along the Appalachian Way, in a nearby town, 1877**

Remy came upon the saloon quicker than he had considered. He had taken it upon himself to walk to the next town, knowing his whereabouts were never questioned by those at home. He took the booth closest to the door, where he had told the man to meet him. Look for me through the windows, Remy advised. I'll be there.

So when he did come, Remy leaned forward and did not look up. He saw the gun in his holster and his long claw-like fingers at his hip. No, Remy did not need to look up to make sure it was him.

"Thought you said never to meet you in public." Snide but smiling, Victor Creed slipped into the seat opposite of Remy. The thief paid for a bottle of whiskey and ignored that.

"If Logan is really on our trail," he said, pouring the man a drink, "I'm gonna need more than a few days' notice to run like hell. I don't even know de slightest thing about de enemy." He slid the glass across the table and into Creed's awaiting hand.

"Ah, so you need my advice. So much for Logan the Legend," Sabertooth scoffed at the thief.

Remy glowered. "Y' know very well thet's all juss made up. Thought it went nicely for de occasion. Didn't think it'd make de kind of fuss it did."

"The girl fell for it then?" Creed smirked, his teeth glinting in the false light. "You could make anyone believe you." He leaned back in his chair and sounded impressed. "So Magneto knew what he was doing when he hired you."

Remy did not respond to that. "What are Logan's powers?" he asked evenly, keeping his hands wrapped around his own glass.

"He's got claws that shoot out of his hands, sharp as swords. Be mighty unlucky if he sticks you with his knuckles." He made a swift motion with his fist, as if stabbing Remy in the chest. The thief was not amused. "Can track anything down, no matter what it is; just sniffs 'em out easy. It's how _he's_ following her."

"Where is he now?" Sabertooth grinned absently.

"Got sidetracked, I guess."

Remy's eyes flashed. "Sidetracked? Y' said three days."

"So aren't you glad it wasn't? Not like you needed three days to leave Kentucky anyway. 'Sides, you hiding in the Appalachias is good enough for the time being. But you take her to Magneto within the week, he'll double what he gave you last."

Remy gritted his teeth. "We talked about thet. She ain't ready." He gave Sabertooth an even stare. "I don't e'en know what she can do. Not yet."

Victor Creed shook his head. He couldn't stop grinning. "All right then. Go ahead; take your sweet time with the mutie. She ain't goin' anywhere; it's plain as day you've got her wound up in your game. I'm just saying it wouldn't turn out as ugly if she were with Magneto by the time Logan finds her." He gave Remy a knowing glance and shrugged. "At least _he_ can bend steel."

* * *

**9. Ghost Story**

**Along the Appalachian Way, 1877**

The sun was beginning to descend as the girls made their way back to McCoy's. Fall had settled in before Rogue had realized it. It had been a season that Logan secretly enjoyed with the colder air, the icy storms, the world dying all around. She thought of this, unable to recall how she even knew that. Logan was not a sentimental man; she needed to stop thinking that he might be remembered as one.

Jubilation was rattling on about something. And then she stopped. Her cheeks became pink and she averted her gaze all too quickly. Rogue glanced up ahead. Someone was leaning against the fence. There were horses in those fields, grazing; Jubilation tugged on Rogue's sleeve and whispered, "That's him."

He was nice-looking enough, and when he caught sight of the girls he tipped his cowboy hat and drawled, "E'enin,' ladies." Which, of course, made Jubilation break out into uncontrollable, nervous giggling.

And despite herself, Rogue had to roll her eyes.

When they were a good distance away, Rogue asked, "So what's his name?"

Jubilation, having lost her fit of giggles, merely shrugged. "Haven't a clue."

"But yah lahke him," Rogue laughed. This was hopeless.

"I come this way for a reason, you know," Jubilation flatly informed her. And then she looked away, dreamily. "But he has a nice face. And arms. Of course, I wouldn't know for sure how he looks—can't work up the nerve to look him in the eye." She caught Rogue smiling at her and was shocked. "You're laughing at me!" She declared, as if scandalized.

"Well, Ah don't know, Jubes," Rogue said. She did not deny she was laughing at her though. "But he seems tah notice yah…"

"You really think so?" Jubilation interrupted, sounding so hopeful that Rogue did not know how to answer. But she immediately dismissed the thought of it. "Well, anyway, we live so far apart I only see him twice a day. But I look forward to it, and I like to think he does too." She suddenly fell quiet and the silence sounded so empty without her useless chatter that Rogue glanced at her sideways, wondering what she was thinking. "McCoy settled in these parts awhile ago, before I got here. He found it deserted, probably because of that haunting at the bridge."

She thought a lot about that story but never had the opportunity to ask about its relevance. "So is it true?" Rogue did not look at Jubilation but felt her eyes on her. "Dat bit about dah ghost knowing about dah dead."

"Wolfsbane? The girl Rahne?" She smirked; Jubilation was all mischief, but Rogue meant it seriously.

"Do yah think it's true?" She asked again.

Jubilation rolled her eyes. "Never thought about it. Tired souls, walking this earth, caught between worlds. It's romantic and depressing at the same time. Wouldn't want to be a ghost."

"But is it true?"

"Why? Are you looking for someone?" Rogue did not answer. She did not know what to say. So Jubilation rolled her eyes (again) and said, "Why don't you see for yourself?"

**…**

They walked the rest of the way, Jubilation talking, Rogue listening. The sound of water became audible and Rogue glanced up ahead of her.

In the distance, she might've heard a tired, sad howling coming from the bridge. But it could have been the wind.

"Go on." Jubilation pushed her forward. "Dare you," she challenged in a low voice.

Rogue hesitated. And then she began to walk, shoes in hand, her bare feet gently padding the ground, bending the grass that created the path to the old bridge. The running water filled the silence, and she reached the weathered bridge without great consequence. Behind the girl, Jubilation watched from her perch, wide-eyed and thrilled and fearful all to pieces.

"Now what do Ah do?" Rogue called out, stopping in the middle of the bridge. She stared straight ahead, watching the moon shine through the clouds. Her body trembled and she mentally willed herself to calm down.

"Call out her name three times, like I told you!" Jubilation quietly laughed behind her hands.

Rogue breathed in. The air was so still she might've choked. "Rahne! Rahne! Rahne!"

For awhile, nothing happened. And then Jubilation began to laugh.

"Oh, that was wonderful! You were so brave!" Rogue was so startled that she almost did not realize that Jubilation had her fooled. But she quickly settled into consternation over Jubilation's folly when she realized she was laughing _at her_.

"Shit, Jubes. Ah damn near pissed." Which made Jubilation laugh even harder.

"You looked so scared! I thought for sure that ghost'd come out and spook us all!" Rogue stared at her for awhile. And then she cracked a smile.

"Guess…guess Ah was scared." She did not know what to expect. She did not know what to believe. Then the air turned cold, but the moon continued to shine and the wind did not blow any stronger. Jubilation must have noticed too, for she shivered openly and called out to Rogue. "Reckon we should go." She suddenly gave her a challenging look. "Race ya."

Before Rogue could reply, she took off, laughing. But there was urgency in her step, as if to get away as soon as possible from that place.

Rogue followed, stumbling over her heavy skirts. Once, as they ran, she took a chance and looked behind her.

A girl stood alone on that broken bridge, watching after them, illuminated in the moonlight.

Rogue ran harder and would not look back.

* * *

**10. A Request**

**McCoy Residence, 1877.**

McCoy shook his head. Rogue sat on the table, feeling a bit embarrassed. She was merely dressed in a slip, at the request of McCoy, with the understanding that he would be examining her wounds this morning. And though he wore gloves and did more observing than prodding, she felt almost dangerous being exposed like this.

"So," she said after a few minutes of the Beast scribbling notes. "What sort of doctor are yah?" Glasses and bottles lined the shelves while apothecary notes in legible penmanship spread all over his desk. Rogue figured they were in his study, but more importantly, his lab where he mixed his concoctions.

"I believe the appropriate term is 'Steam Doctor.' Naturally, everyone considers me a quack. But my methods are less…primitive; ill-advised. And my medicines work. You can testify to the bleach, no doubt." He gave her a hard stare through his bifocals. "You aren't lightheaded at all? You lost a bit of blood back there."

Rogue shook her head, no. He gave her a hard glance and wrote something else down. There was a formality in this examination, she realized. The Doctor might not exactly get the luxury of an actual patient often. "It's medically impossible. You were shot three times through the second and third intercostals. Undoubtedly, they struck your heart; fatally. The bullets lodged there and now neither bullets nor wounds can be found."

"Miracle, ain't it?" Rogue smirked coyly. And then she reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out the bullets. "I woke up that morning with these by my side. Reckon they must have fallen out?"

But the Beast only stared harder. "Again, medically impossible." And then he made a note of it. "It is none of my business, Rogue. But your powers…Remy had mentioned you have powers…it is imperative to know…if you know…what you are capable of doing."

Rogue hesitated. "Ah touch people an' it kills them," she said simply. "Ah know what Ah'm capable of."

Beast took off his bifocals. "But you do not know if you can heal yourself. If that is part of your powers."

Rogue stared at him. "Ah only know what Ah've done tah those people." And then she looked away.

McCoy did not press the matter any further. "Get dressed. I assume that Jubilation will be coming back within the hour. She does the laundry, rather inefficiently, so I fear you might have to help her."

Rogue reached for her dress and jumped off the table. The sound of footsteps could be heard just outside the door. McCoy did not turn around and Rogue figured it would be Jubes.

But then Remy appeared, looking into the room and finding Rogue standing by the table, her pale arms and legs exposed, feebly pulling on her dress. His gaze jumped from her face to the place where she had been shot. Briefly, relief flooded his face. She was so shocked in seeing him that she stood there, half-dressed, as Remy's eyes widened slightly. And much to her dismay, so did his smirk.

"You could knock," McCoy mentioned, slightly annoyed. Remy seemed distracted; he did not take his eyes from her.

"Didn't know y' fancy de ladies in here, _mon ami._"

"On the contrary. I was examining the damage done. But seeing that there is no damage, Rogue is better off outside with Jubilation," he said. Remy watched her dress quickly from the corner of his eye, completely amused that she looked downright embarrassed. He gazed at her ruefully, never understanding why the women wore so much clothing anyway. She left the room without hesitation; her skirts scratched the floor as she walked passed him.

Remy watched her go. And then he followed.

"Rogue. Rogue, wait." His voice made her slow down. She briefly turned her head towards him and he could see she was blushing. "Didn't get a chance t' see y' yesterday." They were outside now, and the open air smelled sweeter, felt freer. "So where did y' head to? Without me?" He added that last bit with a smirk.

They walked together, towards the laundry lines behind the house. "Town. She showed me her sweetheart."

Remy's jaw tightened, duly noticed by Rogue. "Who is he? I'll kill him."

Rogue laughed at that. "She doesn't even know his name. Yah should at least give her a chance tah learn dat."

He smirked again; it was good to make her laugh. "_Oui, oui._ S'ppose it'd be de _gentleman_ thing t' do."

She smiled back at him and his heart buckled— he was surprised, taken aback. Struck with how very pretty she really was, more than he'd like to allow. He never gave her a second thought before they came here. For all the time they've spent together, he never thought he'd like her as much as he did then, against the Appalachian hills with her hair blowing in the wind, glowing in the failing light and a smile just for him dappling her face. Was this what it was like, to simply be with her, just the two of them, always at arm's distance and never touching?

Nothing she ever threw at him hit harder than that look. He felt wounded by her smile.

"Stop lookin' at me lahke dat." She had moved on while Remy stood grounded, struck dumb. He had to run to catch up with her. "We also visited dah broken bridge, juss up dah path with dat ghost y'all love." She swung her hand and Remy decided not to take it upon himself to reach out and hold it.

"It's a supersitition, Rogue. Juss a story." Remy's eyes flashed. Wasn't it?

But Rogue was adamant. "She's there. Ah've seen her on dat bridge."

Remy said nothing. He might have been nervous, but she would have never known it. He shifted uneasily by her side and said nothing, just stared dead ahead.

"Ah know she'll help me. Somehow. Ah juss have dis feeling."

"What do y' want from him anyway?" Remy sounded almost defensive. He looked at her haughtily. "I hope y' ain't aimin' t' raise him from de dead."

"Don't say those things. Yah know how much he meant tah me." She shrugged off his remarks and would not brood over them. "Ah guess Ah juss want tah talk tah him. Crazy, huh, Rems? Ah juss regret it so much..."

"Don't go back there." He demanded it. Rogue noticed the strain in his voice and looked at him, confused. "I don't have a good feelin' 'bout it. Don't go back there, Rogue."

He reached for her gloved hand. And for once, she did not protest. "Reckon y' might get hurt." Not completely a lie. "Cain't risk it," he finished, staring down at their hands intertwined.

_Ga Lee._ A few weeks ago, he was convincing himself she didn't mean a thing to him. Funny that he should suddenly change his mind. He was losing her, he knew. Maybe he liked her. Maybe. But there were things he could not risk, his heart being one of them, his plans another. And if she found out Logan was really alive...Remy did not doubt _that_ possibility, and if it weren't for the mutant hunters or police, it was the Legend himself out to reclaim what was his. Or Sabertooth keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder, knowing his every turn, his every move. Remy was not about to have a ghost ruin all his work up to this point; he did not go through all this trouble to fail now.

She stared at him. And held his hand too. "Ah won't," she finally whispered, her eyes flitting up to his face before settling back down to their hands intertwined.

But they both knew she was lying.

* * *

1. The Killers. _When You were Young_.

Jubilation singing The Killers? I know: a bit anachronistic, you think? I'd like to believe their music suits her, though. The Abbey Road acoustic version goes very well with their bit about talking through the wall. I've always thought that romantic, somehow. Talking through walls. Not kissing in the rain or candlelight dinners. Imagine that.

So, I should start off, like I always do, with an apology for making you wait! It's been a busy year, but I've finally finished school and can now spend more time writing this (funny, how I prefer it).

Part Four focuses mostly on developing Remy and Rogue's relationship because, well, let's face it. I've dragged it out long enough and everyone's been hinting about how attached they are to one another anyway. Remy suddenly has an emotional side to him! About time too! I've also brought Rahne into the picture...as a ghost. A sad one, in fact. And it's extremely important that she be a link to the dead. Rogue might act on it, on behalf of Logan and Remy won't be pleased to find his plans unraveled by a ghost. And we should probably follow up on how Logan's doing.

I believe the most important thing to note in this chapter would be the fact that Remy is attached to McCoy and Jubilation, partly because he left Jubilation with McCoy, but also that he feels responsible for her. Like family. And like family, Jubilation and Beast welcome him back no matter what, no questions asked. Rogue adapts this sort of understanding with him, because it's definitely easier than confronting him about his intentions and past. And besides, she still believes he is actually helping her. What a guy. To Remy's defense, he's gradually falling for her, keyword being gradually. And you're here to see it all unfold!

...Unto my responses to my lovely reviewers!

ishandahalf: Hello again! Yes, I believe Remy's well deserved smack across the head will come in due time. He did have a piece of humble pie this time around, though. Pet pigs were actually a popular house pet in the 1800s. I like to think Jubilation saved hers from the butcher. She would, you know.

Randirogue: Thank you for the review! I hope this chapter satisfies your craving this time around!

the-writing-vampire: Thank you for summarizing the extent of Remy's popularity at this moment in time. Isn't much, actually. And yes, I take Rogue's side on this one. Remy's a dolt. But he can be redeemed, as we all would dearly love to see. As to your questions: 1. I hope Remy came across as contrite. He's such a hard nut to crack, but him tracing back his steps to Rogue seems to pave the way for forgiveness. He did admit he was wrong, after all. 2. Remy will leave her! Or Rogue will leave Remy! But not right now. I can assure you in due time, however. It is inevitable! bwahaha! 3. Logan will catch up to Remy! Sometime after this chapter. How and when I cannot say. It adds to the mystery...and intrigue! 4. Xavier is probably the equivalent to Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz, if there can be such a comparison o.O But Rogue will get there, with or without Remy. So there you go, my answers without answering anything, really. And I promise I will make it more exciting than I've put here. Just for you, I'll make it exciting! Thank you for keeping me on track--I've got questions to answer in the future chapters no doubt!

allyg1990: --Points to this chapter--That's how! Thank you for the review!

And so the plot thickens! Remy make up your mind before the ghost speaks to Rogue! And please review to keep my life exciting. Seriously.


	15. Fifteen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: I figured you came here expecting to be spooked, but I don't have much experience writing the stuff. I don't look for ghosts and they don't come after me. And besides, the living do far worse than any ghost could. But that doesn't make the dead any less interesting, huh? Many of my references are on account of an acquaintance who actually _sees _them. Six sense and everything! But a real, true poltergeist's actions are debatable. I wouldn't stay around long enough to find out, but Rogue's got more pluck than I ever had. And so I present to you Chapter Fifteen. Please enjoy.

* * *

**You know as well as I do that people who die bad don't stay in the ground.**

**-from Toni Morrison's **_**Beloved**

* * *

_

**11. Provoked**

**Appalachian Mountains, 1877**

A heart is a mighty thing, and when it's broke, it's a harder thing to fix. You'd believe it, seeing her walking in the dead of night, saying his name over and over in her head, much like a prayer with no beginning, no end. Rogue walked in the safety of the moonlight, cloaked in the darkness, the lamp trembling in her unsteady grip. She had slipped out from Jubilation's side, just when the moon was able to shake itself free from the clouds. In the distance, she saw that awful bridge, shining something dangerous against the Appalachian backdrop.

She followed the stream the way Jubilation had taken her before, cautiously noting the howl of a coyote—or worse—somewhere near. The lamp swung noisily in her hand as she briefly held it in front of her. Nothing materialized, not just yet, so she walked unto the bridge without thinking twice.

Rogue called the ghost by her given name, quick and insistent. "Rahne! Rahne! Rahne!" She waited for what seemed an eternity, but there would be no glow from the bridge tonight; the moon hung serenely in the sky as Rogue looked about her expectantly, only to be disappointed the one time she truly wanted it to show, and she remained quite alone in her meager circle of light.

So she continued to beckon the ghost, convinced this was the only way to wake the dead. And so she waited for a sign from the beyond, her whispered name, _anything_ that could prove someone might be listening. But when that did not draw the dead, she began to call for someone else entirely.

"Logan," she breathed into the stillness. It had been awhile since she spoke of him, let alone _to_ him, and the thought of her friend sent Rogue swirling into a sea of guilt and denial all over again. The wind ruffled her shawl and she drew her arms about her while searching the darkness, watching for his semblance, wanting to see for herself what death had done to him, if it had changed him any. Would he return as a child? The way he died? Or perhaps appear a different sort of man altogether? "Logan," she gasped, and her tears surprised her. "Ah never meant tah kill yah. Ah never meant anythin' mean, tah take yah away from me an' ruin us both. It was a mistake an' Ah'm sorry for it." Rogue believed that the dead would need convincing, you see; that a life taken would never settle for a mere apology. But Logan was different, she told herself. He knew her heart, better than anyone else. And she was never his kin, but felt he, indisputably, was family.

She closed her eyes. Saying those things finally; wanting him to know how her regret, the guilt she carried with her across the country, was worse than being wanted for murder and branded as a mutant. She hated herself for what she could not help. That story about Rahne; Rogue couldn't blame the girl for being so desperate to get away from a world that wouldn't have her.

The calm became desperate—almost maddening—as seconds fell into dismal, hopeless minutes. Rogue dropped down and sat with her legs dangling over the stream. She would wait all night if that's what it took, she decided. The moon lit her bare limbs white, and she vaguely mused how she might appear if Remy had realized she'd gone and went to find her. Would he be angry if he saw her now? And then she wondered why she even thought about him at all.

Rogue looked out into the distance and saw something moving from the wayside; someone was approaching from the other side of the bridge. She half-turned, startled. Her grip tightened on the lamp's handle as it creaked on its hinges, and the girl lifted her light, peering into the darkness.

"It's only me," said a familiar, genteel voice and sure enough the Beast appeared, stepping into her circle of light and looking as curious as she was frightened.

"Man alive, yah scared me," she said, relieved all to pieces upon recognizing him.

McCoy was good enough to smile; a monster never looked so friendly. "Out searching for ghosts at this hour?" he inquired in his thoughtful, knowing tone. Rogue met his eye and was sorry she did.

"How'd yah know?" She dropped her arm, allowing the lamplight to flicker briefly in the mild wind.

"Sneaking out in the middle of the night while everyone's asleep? Not just to run away, I'm sure." He turned suddenly, looking towards the bridge. And there again was that pensive pause as he turned his thoughts to the ghost. "Now what would the Rogue want to do with the dearly departed?"

The girl joined his side, trying to piece together a plausible explanation without giving too much away. "Juss wanted to see if she were real."

McCoy looked at her then and his smile disappeared. "I knew Rahne when she lived, during the War years. She was born close to these mountains and she wasn't much older than Jubilation when she killed herself. Didn't care to live, not as a mutant, she didn't." He leaned back into his haunches and walked to the railing, slow as a funeral march. "Oh, she's real, all right. Her ghost is too."

Rogue got to her feet. The evening was a quiet one despite their conversation and the silence felt almost eerie to her. As if someone watched them and listened furtively in the safety of the shadows. "Reckon it had to be more than a story," she put in, and he nodded. "Ah saw her the other day, while Jubilation and Ah passed through. Figured Ah might talk tah her 'bout the dead…"

McCoy gave her a dark look that immediately cut off her trail of thought. "That will never do," he told her, and his stern tone surprised the girl. "She's an angry ghost. A poltergeist, really. Of course, she never enters my house; knows her boundaries. But that doesn't mean she won't try."

"What do yah mean, angry?"

"She died badly, after all. Begs to be noticed. Give away that you're paying attention and she'll keep coming back in worse ways than you can imagine. Haunted me for awhile. Almost burned my house down. Twice."

Something wicked clenched at Rogue's chest and she suddenly became very afraid. "B-But she's a ghost," Rogue stammered hopelessly. "Ghosts don't do that sort of thing…"

"This one does," McCoy replied simply. "She's spiteful, this one."

Meaning, quite frankly, that it would only be a matter of time before trouble turned around and started looking in their direction.

* * *

**12. The Haunting**

**McCoy Residence, 1877**

It began simply enough. The night after Rogue visited the bridge, Jubilation turned quiet, answering shortly and napping during the daytime. When asked what the matter was, she simply looked away, her eyes and mind averted to things the others did not see. Rogue noticed she did not sleep at night but would lie awake with the lantern lit at her headstand, mumbling to herself until Rogue grew tired and fell asleep. Even Pig was ignored, and she adored him. So three days later, Remy sat Jubilation down and demanded to know what had happened that turned her mute, so she finally told him, quite simply, that there was a monster on the roof.

Rogue knew that Jubilation was talking about the ghost because she heard it last night herself, snapping at the shingles and growling into the roof above their heads; it walked on four feet then with footsteps like a human before disappearing altogether.

So later that day, Rogue went looking for the girl and found her sitting in McCoy's cramped lab, brightened by the sunlight, spider plants dangling from the rafters above their heads as she carefully wrote "McCoy's Concoctions that Really Work" on bottles destined for bleach, laundry soap, stain removers, itchy-relief formulas and medicine for headaches and fainting spells. And eucalyptus salve, of course.

"Didn't head tah town this mornin'?" Rogue asked conversationally, minding the hanging pots as she made her way to the table. Jubilation did not turn around and instead dipped her brush into the ink.

"Woke up later than I should've. McCoy sent me here to finish this batch of bottles. Then it's off to fill them."

Rogue took a seat across from Jubilation who hardly looked up from her work. She crafted her calligraphy lines so easily that Rogue watched for a moment longer, fascinated.

"Ah didn't sleep at all last night," she quietly admitted after awhile. This new revelation seemed to rouse Jubilation enough to acknowledge Rogue with a scowl.

"What _was_ that then?" Jubilation placed her paintbrush on the table and scrutinized the bottle she had been painting.

"So yah heard it too."

"Of course I heard it. Was afraid the whole roof might collapse over us. What _was_ it?"

Rogue did not answer immediately. "Ah'm not sure," she replied after a pause.

Jubilation frowned and put down the bottle she was holding. "Hodgepodge, of course you know what it is." She bent forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. "It's the _ghost_." She emphasized that last word with disdain. "And when I told Remy, he had the nerve to laugh at me. I tell you, before I ever came here, I never did believe in ghosts. I've heard stories, not just the ones McCoy tells me, but of those who buried their dead behind their houses who've seen them rise up again. They wake up around eleven o' clock at night and fill the silence with their static. Haunted houses are cold all year long, even in the hottest summers. And if they died badly…well, you'd better watch out. Steer clear and gesture wildly so they won't follow you home. But I've never actually seen one myself…when these stories came true in this very house, I became a believer where it don't help not to know."

"But what if it wasn't a ghost?" That earned her another scowl from Jubilation.

"You know very well no human could walk like a beast and then turn into a person on top of our roof. You think any animal would come near this place with McCoy here? This is beyond anything _alive_, Rogue. That monster is real. And whatever it wants has got to do with something—or someone—inside this house." She picked up her brush and pointed it, marking her words. "And not one of us is safe."

* * *

**13. Denial**

**McCoy Residence, 1877**

Rogue realized the danger of drawing attention from the dead much too late.

The ghost came as a force; quiet-like at first, beckoning Rogue awake at night, speaking in its wordless language for her to come back, _come back_. But when Rogue did not show, the force became stronger, blowing like a wild wind, shaking the house in all its terrible terror meaning to loosen her from its shelter. It knew where she hid, of course, and did not hesitate to follow her home.

Like a wound that began to fester, so did the ghost's presence.

Rogue would awaken in the dead of night to the heaviness of someone—or something walking on the roof above Jubilation's ceiling. Of course, it might have been nothing, but then it began to claw at the shingles and Rogue sat up in bed, frightened the ceiling might collapse. Something whimpered and whined and the footfalls quieted before disappearing altogether.

She confided to McCoy finally, after two straight weeks of lying in bed wide awake, listening to the noises, wanting more than anything for it to go away. She was not sure how to go about the situation, as the departed have a way of staying behind in a world they were meant to leave.

"We must have made it angry," the Beast replied, and worried his bifocals with a soft cloth he kept in his pants pocket. They were sitting in the kitchen and talking over chicory coffee that Remy had stocked in McCoy's cellar the year before. The thief, always the one to share a meal, was making breakfast that morning and overheard their conversation. Naturally, he found it downright amusing.

"Maybe it's y' imagination," Remy joked, setting the table and nudging Jubilation who was dozing at the table. She bristled at this latest slight and graced him with a frown.

"Oh, you think it's funny; that we've suddenly become delusional. It's something we made up to keep us awake at night," she growled. "I feel it. Something's not right. I ain't going out alone, and especially not when it's dark out. Not with this _ghost_ after us."

"Don't say ain't." Beast held his chin with one paw, obviously bothered with their supernatural problem where resolution seemed all but possible. "I'm afraid it will only get worse unless we find out what it wants." He suddenly looked at Jubilation and asked, "Is there anything in your room that might be of value to the ghost?"

Jubilation denied it and simply raised an eyebrow at Rogue who deliberately avoided Remy's questioning, doubtful gaze at all of them. And she knew that she was the cause of all of this, and what was to come just a few days later.

**. . .**

Rogue awoke in the dead of night. She must have fallen asleep somehow, in a room no one dared to enter but her, determined to cease their ghost problem on her own. Jubilation was in the living room, having taken to the couch and swearing off her haunted quarters, leaving Rogue alone with only the moon for a companion in the darkness.

She closed her eyes and tried to settle back into bed, safe and warm under the covers, but there came a tapping sound from just outside Jubilation's window. And Rogue remembered that such a thing was not possible; she was on the second floor. Incessant and insistent, it knocked against the glass in a disturbingly urgent cadence that rendered her wide awake. The noise went on. There were shadows thrown long against the wall, and though Jubilation's bed did not face the window, Rogue thought she saw something move on the other side. There was no wind, no trees to blame; just the miserable cold that made her breath visible and body shiver. Yet the sounds continued.

Rogue slipped from her place on the bed and walked steadily towards the window. The floorboards creaked under her bare feet and she noticed how colder she became the closer she came to the window. Trying to see in the darkness, she rubbed the window and looked out. Nothing but the rolling hills and the broken bridge in the distance. The tapping sounds ceased and she saw only her own reflection staring back at her. Rogue moved away from the window, hearing a door slam shut in the hallway. She flinched, trying to see behind her. The house remained quiet. Nothing; just the wind, she told herself, just the... She turned her head back and saw her reflection replaced with someone else entirely.

She screamed, falling away. And that person, that _face_ looked in and stared at her through the window. It moved its mouth, saying something she couldn't hear.

When she looked again, it had gone.

Rogue approached the window, wary of another appearance, and saw that the glass had gone foggy, as if someone breathed into a mirror and wrote with a finger.

And marked in the glass was his name.

**. . .**

"Do y' have t' do thet now?"

Remy opened the door to McCoy's lab upon seeing Rogue fully dressed and standing precariously on a stool watering the spider plants. He shook his head. That girl could be mighty strange sometimes.

She tipped the watering can into the pot and the sound of rushing water filled the silence. "Was Ah bein' too loud?" She offered plaintively.

"It's three in de mornin', _beb_." He walked inside and shut the door behind him. Rogue, unperturbed, carefully moved on to the next plant. The thief watched her with narrowed eyes, his deep-rooted instincts flaring with suspicion. "Y' aren't _possessed_, are y'?"

She scoffed at him from her place on the stool. "Oh, so now yah decide tah believe us?"

Remy ignored that and furrowed his brow, scrunching the scar running across his forehead. "Somethin' happen? Cain't go back t' sleep?" She did not look his way, so absorbed with the task at hand. "I heard y' scream." So that was it. She had woken him up and now would never hear the end of it.

That made her uneasy but she tried not to show it. "Did Ah?" She tittered, sounding very false. Must've been dreamin'."

She carefully got down from the stool as Remy reached for her arm to steady her. "Rogue," he said, his tone peculiarly concerned, "y' shakin'." He took the watering can from her and sat her down on the chair.

The girl looked away unsurely. How could she tell him what she had done? Or how the ghost had appeared to her and wrote Logan's name on the window like an evil promise; the very threat of blackmail; knowing her darkest secret and deliberately using it against her? Rogue was vaguely aware that the thief had perched himself before her against the table, his movement rattling the bottles left to dry on its surface overnight. The room was sweetly fragrant with eucalyptus and aloe, jumbled together with Remy's good male scent and cigarette smoke, so curiously pleasant that Rogue wanted to bottle it up and store it away in secret.

But Remy was thinking back to a time when he felt just as powerless to help her, and gazed at the girl with the softness all but snuffed from his face. "_Merde_," he suddenly breathed, gingerly touching the fabric at Rogue's chest with the soft pads of his fingers, "not e'en a scratch on y'." He caught her gaze and gave her a sincere smile, and it was as if he were suddenly seeing her in a different light. "How y' do it? Feels like I spent a lifetime w' y', and I don't know y' at all." Funny how that was; how she wondered the same about him. Then his expression turned teasing. "Y' sure y' really ain't Logan's Kin?"

Rogue felt so rotten she had to smile. And then he did the unthinkable, fitting himself around her so that she had no choice but to lean into him. Rogue balked and her mind blanked. Her first reaction was to resist; certainly she should not allow him so close, freely touching her as if she had the luxury to feel. But it was as if her mind and body had been severed, unable to compromise what she wanted with what she needed; her will cruelly weakened by such a wonderful, simple gesture. She felt his collarbone against her forehead, his tattered trench coat musky and beaten with its travels, and she relaxed, every nerve and sense alive with his hands at her rounded back, holding her to him.

"I should've known." He kept her in his arms, talking into her hair. "Y've come alive before. I should've known y'd do it again." And then he gently pushed her back and looked down at her, those devil eyes driving her mad with their staring. "Reckon y've been t'rough worse. Dis _revenant_ ain't strong enough t' hurt y'. It don't know how. An' y' won't let it._ I_ won't let it."

Rogue said, "Yah're shakin'." His eyes widened slightly, considering her observation.

Remy chuckled softly, so as not to wake the others. "S'ppose I am," he said, in awe.

* * *

**14. The File**

**McCoy's Residence, 1877**

Remy LeBeau sat facing the paneled windows of McCoy's lab, shifting through the doctor's personal paperwork on the table. Lists of ingredients and experiments—uses for Nettle Extract, Peppermint—littered the room, disorganized in an order only Beast could decipher. Rogue and the doctor were away harvesting the last of the berries by the nearest path while Jubilation had headed to town to sell bottles. There was nothing the thief could possibly pilfer in their absence. Nothing but notes on a mutant, of course.

He found the cryptic file buried under a description of the element Potassium and a recipe for broiled pig, and took a seat by the table, poring over McCoy's careful observations concerning a particular mutant called Rogue from Caldecott, Mississippi.

_October 20, 1877: Rogue, female. Young, perhaps early twenties. Received patient few days before, bleeding profusely, fatal gunshot wounds to upper right thorax. Time of death: twenty minutes to two; heart failure secondary to hypovolemia. _

_Revived spontaneously within minutes of death. Recovered without complications. Healing powers suspected. Reminiscent of Logan's capabilities._

Remy narrowed his eyes, rereading that last daunting scrawl_. Logan's capabilities_…

"Funny seeing you in here." Remy quickly snapped the notes into his lap and glanced up, instinctively fingering the playing cards in his pocket.

"Oh," he breathed, releasing his makeshift weapons, "it's y', _petite_." Jubilation quietly shut the door behind her and dropped an empty basket on the table before shrugging off her shawl. "Was juss 'bout t' leave. How'd y' do today?"

Jubilation said, "That basket was full when I left." She threw her shawl on the back of a chair and took a seat at the table.

"_Bien_. Y'll have t' take me t' dinner tonight, an' y' payin'." He meant to go on, to gussy her up and excuse himself, but Jubilation's expression stopped him cold.

"How daft do you think I am? It's not my fault you got caught being in a room you don't belong." Despite it all, she wondered if he _meant_ to be caught, sitting so obviously out of place among the bottles and herbs and papers that meant absolutely nothing to him.

The girl glanced at the file Remy had managed to slip back into the pile of loose leaf papers that knew no sense of order. Her voice was quiet and serene as standing water when she spoke. "Still in the business, are you?"

Remy said nothing. They sat like strangers across from each other, not certain where to look.

"Who is it this time?" She pressed him further, and it was as if she broke the silence with a mallet.

The thief scowled at the table. "Y' know very well who it is."

"Hmm. I just wanted to make sure, was all." And then her face softened and she began to collect the empty bottles that needed to be filled. "It's all right, Remy. I won't tell anyone. I haven't before, have I?" He did not answer. The girl leaned over the table, bending her face to his. "Have I?" she asked again, urging an answer.

Remy gave a short nod. "I cain't have anythin' t' do with her. Y' know thet, _petite_."

Jubilation raised a bottle to the window, deflecting sunlight through its glass. "Sure I do. Of course, you'd have to get rid of her soon. No sense in keeping her around if you only intend to give her away. That Legend story of yours won't hold water for long."

Remy shot her a look. "Thet's a fine way t' put it."

Jubilation laughed, thoroughly enjoying this. "What? You hold her too much, too often, it gets harder to leave. Isn't that what you said you told Peter back in Kentucky? Hmm. A lot of good that did him."

That surprised the thief enough to make him laugh. "Den y' saw us last night?" He even sounded impressed.

"I live here, don't I? Hugging a girl, making her swoon even if she can't touch. You heartless pig; selfish as ever—tell me, were you holding her for her sake or yours?" She smirked. "You said once you can't have your emotions get in the way; that's what makes you good at what you do."

"_Oui_," he agreed simply, watching as she arranged the bottles by name.

The girl cocked her head to one side. "You sure you aren't falling for her?"

The thief frowned, unsettled by her words. "Don't say such no-account foolishness. I cain't have anyone gettin' hurt."

That made Jubilation smile. "Sparing feelings now, are you? Wonder if you'd say the same about Jean." Her name, uttered so calmly, sounding so foreign coming from Jubilation, she might as well have driven a stake through his heart. "So?" She looked up from her work inquisitively, wrenching him away from thoughts involving New York. "Are you going to tell Rogue about the real reason you're traveling with her?"

"Tell her?" He balked at the very thought.

"Of course. Figure it wouldn't be pretty if she found out about you herself. And I already told you I wouldn't tell, so _you're_ going to have to do it. Besides, she'd want to hear it from you anyway."

Remy shrugged and shook his head. "Rogue doesn't need t' know. I plan t' leave 'fore my stayin' warrants explanation."

Jubilation was not convinced, knowing full well that things could never be that easy. "In a way, I already feel sorry for her. As indecisive as she is, she'll do right to flow away from you."

"Y' talkin' 'bout de too-much-water thing, right?" He tried for a lighter topic. "How 'bout me then? What element do I have?"

"Hmm. Not sure. But it's obvious what you _lack_," Jubilation said with a simpering smile, knocking her knuckles on the wooden table. "Coward."

* * *

**15. Sighting**

**McCoy Residence, 1877  
**

The scratching began just as Rogue started to drop off to sleep, so she had no choice but to listen to it sniff and whimper at the shingles until it jumped clear off the roof. She waited for the sound of something hitting the ground below but it never came. And then her window began to glow and Rogue could see the familiar ghostly outline of someone looking in.

This time, Rogue stood her ground and peered out. She could see the spirit clearly now, that ghostly gleam running the length of what was left of her body, the way her skirts faded and floated up around her before disappearing altogether.

There were cuts, deep cuts, running the width of her neck. Blood seeped from wounds that would not heal. Her face was sweetly drawn, hair in pigtails, a hesitant smile on her face. So this was Rahne, the monster haunting these mountains. Rogue turned away briefly. And when she looked back, she saw that the girl's face had _changed_ somehow; not ugly, not dead, but _livid_. The ghost placed her palm on the window. She was saying something that Rogue did not hear, and she smacked her hand against the glass. Where she had tapped to get Rogue's attention, the ghost now banged to keep it. And again. And again. Harder with a fist and yelling now, her dead eyes staring down the living. Rogue knew she could not talk; she had sliced through her chords in the process of severing her throat, and there was so much blood, running down her shirtfront, soaking the lovely hollow of her throat, and suddenly, something cracked and Rogue broke from her daze, realizing it was_ breaking the glass _and meant to come inside.

She did not move from her place facing the window; Rogue stood and watched as the crack lengthened and stretched before relenting to the pressure of the poltergeist. Impulsively, Rogue lifted her arms to shield herself against the fragments flying all around her. And as glass particles hit the ground like soft, tinkling hail, Rogue could hear someone shout and footsteps running to her room.

The ghost had gone. Remy made it to her room first and cautiously opened the door. Rogue turned to him, trembling as the wind scurried in through the broken window.

She saw Jubilation and Beast at the door standing behind Remy, their expressions surprised, aghast. Entering, it seemed, was not an option.

Remy was the first to react. He carefully surveyed the damage, his gaze dropping from Rogue to the floor to the shattered window. He called to her once, sounding somehow distant despite his proximity at the doorframe. And then he walked over and lifted her away from the debris. "Thet's it. Careful now." His boots crunched glass underfoot and he carried Rogue out as the others followed them downstairs.

**. . .**

She was scraped and bleeding, but nothing worse than scared.

"Y' all right?" He carefully set her down on the couch where lamplights were gathered like fireflies, flitting madly in the violence of the wind that continued to shake the entire house.

Rogue nodded once and leaned her face away from his. After awhile, her breathing quieted and Beast pulled on gloves and carefully applied his antiseptic salve to her cuts.

"Ah think Ah've made it mad," she said quietly. She looked at Remy from her angle at his shoulder and watched as the muscles in his jaw tightened. Beast and Jubilation exchanged uneasy glances.

"Mad, _chere_?"

"The ghost." She closed her eyes. "Ah believe it was appealin' tah me. An' now Ah've made it mad."

"Some ghosts know not to come inside," Beast liked to believe. But Jubilation was not convinced.

"Ghosts walk through walls and with my window open like that it might as well make itself at home! I liked her better when she was just a story."

McCoy mumbled, "It has not come this close for awhile now. Always lingering at the bridge; that's where she died. It must have been provoked." The unsaid blame hung heavy in the air and Rogue shifted awkwardly in her seat.

"Well, did it say what it wanted?" This from Remy, seated next to her on the couch, guarded and daring anyone to try and get close.

"I don't believe she speaks," Beast answered for her. "Ghosts have a peculiar way of putting things."

Remy couldn't resist a smirk. "Ah, so y' say it's gone a-follerin' after Rogue?"

"In so many words, no," Beast replied shortly. And then he turned to the girl, the crease between his eyes deepening. "But it does want something from you, Rogue, and I believe it will not stop until you see what it wants with you."

"Y' suggest she go an' get herself hurt?" Remy challenged.

Beast shook his head. "Well, no, I wouldn't put her in danger if that were the case. No, I believe it haunts when it knows someone is watching. The ghost wants to be seen."

"But you've seen the ghost. You were watching," Jubilation put in, curiosity getting the better of her.

"But I wanted nothing from her, so she gave up bothering me." He looked to Rogue, perplexed. "So what could she possibly want with you?" The girl merely stared at the fire, avoiding Remy's accusatory glare aimed straight at her. So she had returned to the bridge. She had not told him and that was a terrible mistake.

Remy cleared his throat and got up from his place beside her.

"_Merde_." He gave her a withering smile; Rogue blanched, feeling her heart sink. "Thet's what y' get for wakin' de dead."

"Ah wanted tah know," she tried explaining.

"An' I told y' not t' go back there," Remy returned icily.

"Ah never thought it'd come an' follow me here. Ah would never put yah—or anyone in danger because of me." Silence. The tension pulsed and stretched between them, fatal as a noose.

Beast grunted at the both of them. "Then you must finish what you've started." And he regarded Rogue with his bifocals latched at the end of his nose. "Or be finished by it."

* * *

**16. Last Straw**

**Appalachian Mountains, 1877  
**

The setting sun clung sleepily to the darkening sky as Rogue headed out towards the bridge. She had a mind to put an end to this once and for all, and headed to the place that started it all.

Halfway there, she discovered she was being followed. When she flew around, Jubilation appeared from her place in the grass, looking curiously back at her, those shining black eyes lit with amusement. Rogue noticed Pig had tagged along, but only just about, waddling a good distance away despite the short journey from their house.

"Rogue." She paused a few feet away from her, as if unsure how to proceed. "Does Remy know you're here?" Such a simple, outright question. Rogue tried not to flinch at the sound of his name, remembering her promise and wishing she hadn't.

"No, Jubes, he don't. An' you'll be right not tah tell him what Ah've done."

"Is this because of what he said earlier? About never returning here?" She tilted her head to observe Rogue's face and her eyes widened with surprise. "Why're you crying?" Perhaps this first bit of emotion had thrown Jubilation. The Rogue had finally cracked, she decided, and was none too happy about it.

Rogue quickly turned away; she never did like having others see her cry. "Ah shouldn't be here. Remy said Ah was bein' selfish." She sniffled into her sleeve and quickly wiped at her face. "Ah came here lookin' for mah friend." Jubilation just stared at her blankly, urging her to continue. "Ah dream of mah friend, Logan. Not juss regular dreams though. Not even nightmares. More like…memories. His memories. Even this place…this bridge…is familiar. Cain't recall ever seein' it before in mah life. Never had a thought about him until Ah done kilt him. Now Ah dream of him almost every night. Tell me that ain't crazy." Rogue cut off abruptly, feeling lonely and awful and sad all over again.

"You're haunted," Jubilation noted simply. "But looking to other ghosts causes more trouble, Rogue. They're less than friendly, especially if they died badly."

"Ah juss wanted him to know. He was good tah me."

Jubilation frowned. "You can't make a man remember."

Rogue whispered, "But he won't let me forget."

Jubilation took Rogue by her sleeved arm. "Let's head home. Remy might notice we're gone, then we'll both be in trouble." She tugged at her impatiently, but Rogue resisted.

"Ah did nothin' wrong," she put in. Jubilation merely shrugged and did not loosen her grip on her arm.

"Not yet, you did. You're as stubborn as he is." Rogue was momentarily caught off-guard by this comparison as Jubilation tugged at her sleeve again and ignored the scowl forming on Rogue's face.

"But—"

"You hear that?" The silence was so deafening that Rogue was forced to concede. "Nothing. Doesn't even care to entertain you tonight. Well, what do you expect from a ghost like her? Can't focus on anything but how she died and haunting that useless bridge."

"Now Jubes," Rogue said, suddenly cracking a smile despite the harsh disappointment prodding her heart, "start talkin' lahke that an' yah might juss make it angry."

But the girl rolled her eyes and looked bored. "Well, suppose I'd worry if ghosts could actually touch me." And then a shadow of doubt crossed her face. "They can't _really_ touch, can they?"

And Rogue supposed they did not.

Jubilation suddenly gave a cry of surprise; Rogue saw the ghost then, far larger than a mere wolf, its ferocious snout aimed at Jubilation. It grabbed at the girl's skirts and began to drag her away. She toppled to the ground, screaming in terror, clawing at the dirt to stay in place. But the force was frighteningly strong, pitching her towards the bridge as Jubilation's fingers carved deep trails into the path.

"Rogue!" she shrieked, struggling to get away.

Rogue went for her arms, too amazed to react any quicker. She yanked back but the ghost tugged harder; soon, both girls were being dragged away.

"Stop it!" Rogue yelled at the ghost only she could see. But it was a wolf and it would not stop, hauling Jubilation crying after it, its muzzle in her skirts, tugging her along so very easily, as if she were a piece of cloth caught off the laundry line.

Over her shoulder, Rogue could see Remy running, his trench coat flying out behind him with Beast close behind, both alerted to their screams outside the house. Remy wasted no time and took Jubilation in his arms, using all his strength to pull her to safety.

"Remy—" Rogue began.

"Get away, Rogue!" he snarled before his arm recoiled, abruptly releasing Jubilation. Everything suddenly stopped. The pulling, the screaming—everything paused as if they were all frozen in time. And Rogue watched in horror as Remy carefully held up his right hand to his face. It was bleeding.

"It bit me," he said vaguely. Rogue righted Jubilation, dirty and dusty now from the struggle, and tentatively approached Remy, the one who told her not to return to this awful, haunted place. He had demanded it, and now she knew why.

She made to join his side but he moved away from her.

"Beast should see it," Jubilation offered, her voice shaky.

"Reckon so," Remy said. But he did not move. Could not. Just stood there, staring at his hand in a dazed sort of way, as if struck with how the ghost came after him, of all people.

"In shock," McCoy mumbled out loud, turning Remy towards the house. "I'll help him back. Jubilation, get my kit ready."

**. . . **

When Beast finally clipped off the end of his sewing, Remy sank back into his bed, his eyes screwed shut, refusing to drink the water they offered. So they retreated, allowing him to rest in the stillness of his room.

"It's a bite, all right," Beast had said, looking past his bifocals as he washed his hands in the water Jubilation had drawn up for the occasion. "But it's a clean wound; it will heal." And then his expression turned grave. "It's an animal bite, but not anything I've ever seen. The wounds are longer, larger; like that of storied werewolves."

"Or a ghost." Jubilation handed him a towel to dry his hands. She was still shaken by what had occurred and minded every mirror and window in the house warily.

The Beast nodded. "Right."

"But how could it have done so? Drag me down one minute and grab his hand in another?"

Beast shook his head, obviously baffled. "How could it have tried to burn down my house? Or break your window clear through? Even science comes up short. I haven't got a clue." There was a note of brittle frustration in his voice, as if he did not want to admit what he did not know.

…

His room smelled strongly of McCoy's eucalyptus salve curiously laced with stale sweat and dried blood. Rogue had been sitting in a discreet corner by Remy's side, wretched with his suffering, knowing full well that this was all her doing. She sat down on the edge of the bed, reached for his wrapped hand and stroked it gently between hers.

"Y' know, _chere_," Remy suddenly said, opening one eye and managing a smirk, "thet doesn't really help." Surprised, she dropped his hand and he flinched. "Nor does that," he rasped breathlessly, as the pain shot up his arm.

"Sorry." She did not meet his gaze and kept her eyes on the bedsheets.

"_Merde_, Rogue. Y' act like you're de the one who bit me." He gave her one of his famous smirks. "_Mais_. Aren't y' gonna say somethin', _chere_? Y' can beat me while I'm down, if y' like. Or is thet too cowardly? Cain't stand t' sit there an' look at me, eh? Guilty, as always." He struggled to sit upright, regarding her as he did a few nights ago, looking amused and furious with the girl. She was trying so hard to look brave, but the pain flared in her face and she stared at his hand, having nowhere else to focus.

"But yah're hurt an' Jubilation won't talk tah me an' this sorry mess is all on account of me." She gave him a hard stare and was lost in her own thoughtful silence. She took a cup to his face. The stench of strong spirits brought him round almost instantly. He drank without relish, letting her pour the awful stuff into him until he pushed her hand away. Enough, he said. The world was beginning to tip.

"She cannot keep doin' this tah you. Tah them. Makin' us nervous wrecks." Tears loosened from her eyes and she wiped her face with the back of her hand, ashamed with her crying.

Remy looked at her and saw that she was serious. No it wasn't the ghost; it was Rogue who made him nervous.

He let out a sharp sigh. "I juss wished y' told me what y'd done. Not after de window's been broken an' Jubilation keeps talkin' 'bout a monster on de roof." He looked forlornly at his wrapped hand and winched.

"What were yah afraid of? Me going back tah that bridge?" She turned quiet in her curiosity, gazing at him in a defiant sort of way, beckoning him to answer her.

"Afraid?" He gave her a defeated glance and decided to tell her the truth. "I was afraid y'd leave me."

"Leave yah?" She began to laugh, causing tears to slide down her face. He stared at her, glowing beside him in the dim lamplight. He thought of the sun shining and the rain falling at the same time, and went to brush away her tears. But then he remembered how he could not touch her and let his hand fall back to his side.

"Reckon Ah thought yah always wanted me tah leave."

"Not like this, _non_." His head lolled to one side. "Not by some damned _revenant_." The wounded hand pricked in pain and he grimaced inwardly. He did not want to lose her. No, not just yet he didn't.

And then she did a miracle of a thing, contrary to all plausible judgment and explanation: the girl gathered him into her arms, her gloved hands finding their way across the map of his back, her body lapsed in his lap. Unmoving. She stifled a sob and held him hard, her face buried in his shirtfront. Remy stiffened at the gesture, realizing she was crying, hanging from him like an albatross he could not shake.

After all that had happened, she still amazed him.

"Don't yah get it? Ah could have lost yah too." And there it was: that incredible need they both shared, that simple dependence between them. He did not know how much he meant to her. How much she meant to him. And it occurred to him that perhaps he did not want to lose her at all.

He touched his good hand to the ends of her curls, those tangled tendrils of auburn and white. And he might have regretted having her so close, but he bent his head low and held her to him as she cried like a dam had burst, like a heart was broke, with no sure way to fix it.

* * *

**17. The Ghost at the Bridge**

**Appalachian Mountains, 1877  
**

She awoke beside him a few hours later, her head at his chest. She had fallen asleep somehow holding unto him. His arm dangled languidly against her back, his steady breathing good to hear in the silence. Rogue closed her eyes, secretly enjoying the warmth emitting from his body, so close she only needed to pause to feel him all around her. It felt forbidden and reckless; Rogue replaced her head against him and felt his heart beat evenly into her ears, steady as an Injun drum.

She hated to disturb him, sleeping so soundly, and wondered what he dreamed about, if he dreamed at all. Logan used to wake from nightmares. Rogue herself did not like to dream; she only harbored memories that had no place in her mind.

Hesitantly, she brought her gloved hand to his face—the same face she wanted so badly to rearrange before—cautiously tracing the bones from his cheek to his jaw and watched him roll away from her touch in his sleep. That made her smile. She propped herself higher, her curls falling into her face, and was about to settle back down beside him when she heard the patter of footsteps on the roof above their heads. Something animal and lonely howled into the night.

Rogue bent her head, her senses heavy with Remy, and willed herself to leave his side. She had no place there, and she knew she was needed elsewhere.

The sky gave way to a ghostly blue as the moon sank behind the clouds. Rogue made tracks outside, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders and gazing off into the distance.

_Yah want me?_ She challenged it angrily. _Yah can have me. _

She began to walk off into the night, when the glow of a lamplight pitched itself into the blackness behind her. Rogue whirled around and found Jubilation and McCoy at the door, fully dressed for the cold and holding their lanterns in front of them.

"What are yah doin'?" She asked them. "This ghost ain't after yah. It wants me."

"We know," said Jubilation, unruffled. "But that doesn't mean we can't come along at least." Rogue turned back to the path. In the distance, something caught her eye. That ghostly glow. She shivered and turned back to her friends, only to find that Remy LeBeau had joined them, cowboy hat and trench coat to boot. He let himself through and approached her, his mouth hooking upwards into a light, easy smirk.

"Figured y'd like some company," he told her, and she allowed herself to smile, fighting back the urge to throw her arms around him again.

They walked for an eternity, the glow becoming brighter and brighter until it nearly engulfed the bridge altogether. Rogue paused, watching the ghost transform into a wolf, snarling and snapping and rabid with rage. Perhaps it was angry that she had brought the others along. But Rogue grew weary of its attacks and broke from the group by herself.

Remy moved forward but Beast held him back. "No," he whispered. "She must go alone."

Rogue took a deep, steady breath and walked on.

"Yah leave them alone!" she yelled, her voice sounding strange as it echoed off the Appalachian Mountains from all sides. "If it's me yah want, yah can have me! But _leave them alone_!"

And so she continued on as the ghost watched and waited for her on the other side.

* * *

**Endnotes:**

I suppose I don't do scary quite as well as I do sentimental. Whether or not you're spooked, I hope it's got your attention. I figured I'd turn this story around on its head and confront its contradictions. Remy falling for Rogue (maybe), denying his feelings (definitely) while his machinations take priority over everything else, and yet, when all else fails, he's the one holding her at the end of the day.

In other news, I've been distracted by _Code Geass_ as of late…really by accident, but it's a crazy, torturous bloodbath of how far humans can push their luck. I was intrigued by the green-haired C.C. which got me watching it from the beginning. I like to say I avoid anime, but this one was just too good to resist. Being me, I'm more absorbed with love stories, but I'll admit it's sort of nice not being the one to know the twists and turns of a story and watch it unfold before your eyes.

Anyway, back to X-Men…I hope you're doubting Remy's motives, reconsidering which side Jubilation is on, and worried for Rogue. I think even Remy forgets how much Jubilation knows about him and he can't do a thing about it. Hehe. Something tells me his plans are backfiring, and just when it's getting good, too! And what's that about Jean? :D Suppose I'd have to explain myself...all in due time, of course. And I'm sorry that you have to wait to find out what the ghost will tell Rogue, but this chapter was getting too long and I was getting anxious to put it up.

I would like to thank all those who favorited this story during its four-year span: aiRo25, allyg1990, andy1316, ArdeurMapetite, Blitz182, EE's Skysong, Goldylokz, mayonga, Mcgmockingbird, Randirogue, rogueylovesmoi, rougegal, Shadowcat110, ShadowFax999, siplma, snccrockz, super_stealthy, supergirlhy, and xomizz understood! Today marks its fourth year anniversary in the works and on the web; my have we come a long way! For you who have reviewed the last chapter (namely scott has a pole up his ass, SparklesintheSun, aiRo25, Crack4Sure, ishandahalf, allyg1990, and the-writing-vampire), I'll make good use of individual replies. Thank you so very much for your support!

I'm so darn pleased with this story's growing reception, and therefore must express my insatiable need for reviews to keep me on my toes. It's not fair not letting me know what you think! So please, help me out, send a review!


	16. Sixteen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: I've got Train on my soundtrack and angst on my mind for this transition chapter, and highly recommend it to set the mood. Many thanks to aiRo25 for the fabulous beta! God knows I needed it!

* * *

**18. Change of Plans**

**Magneto Ranch, Texas, 1877**

Magneto was more of a title he had earned raising cattle on a farm in the outskirts of Texas. His real name he traded for a cape and that heavy helmet, fitted for his head alone, proudly displayed like a trophy over the fireplace. His hair was silver-white, trimmed exactly to the tops of his ears, and his eyes were a dreary sort of blue, having seen too much of the world already. He was not old but he was not young either, and when he spoke, his voice bordered a magisterial condescension.

"You have news for me," he stated very casually as Victor Creed appeared by the doorframe but did not enter.

"The Rogue was found."

"And where is she? I don't suppose you have her tied up behind you. Because that would be grand…but too easy."

The Sabretooth grinned. "With the thief. Sent this ahead, with all his love." He tossed something onto the table. Magneto could see a file of notes, written in Remy's careful handwriting.

He read a few lines and dismissed it. "We do not need information; we already know she is valuable. She must be delivered, and delivered soon."

"LeBeau's got her in the Appalachias. She ain't going nowhere."

"Perhaps you had not realized you've been made a puppet in his grand scheming of things. He's buying time and she will not come to us. Not while he's with her."

Creed growled, but otherwise said nothing.

"They must be separated, of course. I fear our thief might break contract and keep this one for himself." Magneto sighed; he knew of Remy's reputation and that he was very good at doing the wrong things, but that last job with the telepath he had lost to Xavier, and that was irrevocably unforgivable. The Rogue was the thief's last chance at redemption, and Magneto demanded that she be delivered in person straight to him. But certainly all the faith in the world would not be lost on a liar. Magneto could devise this to his advantage after all. "It is time to take matters into our own hands, Sabretooth. We will not be made fools." With that, the boss handed the notes back to him.

Victor Creed knew what had to be done. And he waited for further instructions before setting out towards the Mountains once more.

* * *

**19. Alive**

**McCoy Residence, Appalachian Mountains, 1877**

When Rogue finally came to, she recognized the oversized lantern sitting on Jubilation's nightstand and immediately shut her eyes again. She shivered involuntarily, swearing the temperature had plunged during her sleep. There were bedcovers drawn over her body and an untouched water glass by her head. Dr. McCoy suddenly appeared before her, hanging from the ceiling and looking delighted that she had woken. He promptly righted himself and wrung out a wet rag to place across her forehead.

"And so she lives," he murmured, looking satisfied with his work.

Rogue turned her head to better see him. "How long have Ah been here?" she asked feebly.

"Just a day. You were only sleeping. You're going to be fine." He was so assuring, so kind and comforting, with an almost paternal concern lighting his eyes.

She put a hand on his sleeve and said, "Dr. McCoy." He smiled. "Tell me." Her voice pleaded gently and she saw his face darken. "Tell me 'bout Logan."

* * *

**20. Wolverine**

**Appalachian Trail, Summer of 1864**

There once was a man who was not just any ordinary man. He came upon these mountains during the War years, wrought with wicked intentions, looking for a mutant girl, and joined the mining camp in a nearby town to take up the ways of its people. He was a mystery, that man, wretched as the winter season, cold and clammed up in desperate searching, wanting to be lonely, needing to belong. They called him a wanderer, a vagabond of such storied importance, who followed the stars and went with the winds. They figured him a Johnny Reb, a Billy Yank, a parson who had long since lost faith in both causes. He might have lived for centuries before gracing this one, outliving lovers and enemies and traveling the lines leading to America's dusty roads and winding hills.

It was here in the Appalachian Trail that he met the girl, or more precisely, that the girl met him.

It was Summer and Rahne Sinclair was picking berries for the doctor who lived yonder up the bridge against the backdrop of the Appalachia Mountains. It was an isolated place, those mountains high up and sprawling where it took weeks to cross over and down to get on towards the West. That day, this man was arguing with another and she heard their quarrel over the berry bushes. He was dressed in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat, whiskers donned and old eyes staring down the other man as they wrangled with their words.

"You've come too far to change your mind now," the other was saying, showing startlingly vicious teeth as he grinned. "Magneto might not have you back if you don't show with the mutant."

"I cannot force her to turn if she ain't ready." He drawled his words, seemingly unaffected by the risk he was running.

"But we must. Sometimes it's the only way." His hands were like claws and there was a dangerous glint in his eye. "She's so close, Logan," the man said. And then he whipped out a gun and started for the place where she had been hiding. "I can smell her." He aimed his gun, intending to shoot into the bushes, but Logan cut across him and was caught in the crossfire instead.

He hit the ground hard, clutching the side of his head where he had been shot. Bright blood spewed from the wound and painted his fingertips, but his expression remained unchanged, looking unsurprised with this newest assault on his body.

The other man looked on impassively as Logan bled out before him. "Remember your training, Wolverine," he advised solemnly, before disappearing into the trees.

The girl stood there for a moment longer until she was sure he had gone, waiting between the trees, surprised that the wounded did nothing but sit and stare at the blood on his hand.

She hesitantly approached him and noticed he was still breathing, still alive. She never thought he meant treachery, saw nothing but kindness when she knelt down by his side. She had heard of him from her village, how he had settled into her town without so much as a reason.

He smelled her before he even saw her but she didn't know that then. Peering into his face, she watched as the gunshot wound closed in upon itself, dropping the bullet to the floor like a prize from a candy machine. Logan looked at her, recognized her, and suddenly seemed ashamed by her concern.

"My name is Rahne Sinclair," she told him, although he knew damn well who she was. "That's some fancy trick you can do." She smiled softly. "Are you a mutant?" It was such a daring question, but she was reassuring enough. "It's all right. I am too."

There comes a point where a person could be too kind, too good to see the evil in some people, and she might have known better, helping a stranger like him, but she didn't know that then.

She brought him to the doctor that same day and introduced the two.

* * *

**21. Hank Explains**

**Appalachian Trail, 1877**

My dear girl. How forward of you to ask. And what, with three weeks and a ghost into your stay, the truth should earn its right to be known. "And look upon myself, and curse my fate," I shall.

It has been awhile, I admit; please understand that time tends to distort the memory. Makes us believe things that might have never existed, save for our wild imaginations; I allow mine to serve such purposes as scaring the living daylights out of Jubilation. But there are some individuals who leave an imprint you cannot forget, because, quite simply, they will not let you.

Yes, I knew a Logan once. And if your Logan is the same as mine, then I warn you now that my story is not a pleasant one to tell.

Everything that happened on that bridge… it has everything to do with him. It has everything to do with her.

Rahne Sinclair was the daughter of an Irish family residing at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains below my house. She was a vibrant girl, controversial as a Galilean discovery, and she must have been merely ten and three of age when we met. She found me utterly interesting—why, with my blue face and animal hands and yet I could walk upside-down while speaking politely as a gentleman with precise vocabulary and a knack for quoting poems which amused her to no end.

Even during those early years when Rahne still lived, I did not show my face. It takes a great deal of perseverance and tact to become a hermit, and so I did, living in my little house on the top of a mountain where no one would come looking.

Or so I thought.

"The Soul selects her own Society," someone wise once wrote. And thus she found me long after I had settled in. The girl was not the least afraid, confessed her mutation, and proposed we become friends. Perhaps, my loneliness had begun to eat away at my resolve; perhaps, the hermit life took its toll after all. So I agreed.

I taught her many things, things the Mountain people do not venture to know, isolated as they are—about science and herbal remedies, of English scholars and poets and story-tellers, and (my personal favorite) the workings of the human body. Because before I was blue and beastly, I was a doctor—a _professional_, you understand; I was revered for miles around for I researched quantum physics and chemistry as easily as you might learn a stranger's name. I've founded stars and planets with my telescope that Copernicus overlooked so many years ago. I might have dissected cadavers and wrote a book on my findings, if so inclined. But now, I regret to say I am worth more as a circus act than a practitioner of medicine and science. I went into hiding after I turned; I had no choice. My piece of humble pie, and a very large piece it was.

She was a good pupil, that Rahne. Loved stories and entertained my thoughts that the world was a much larger place with a limitless sky that stretched overhead bearing so much potential even beyond the stars that we merely see. One day, we will be able to travel those galaxies, discover things we can only imagine to find in such notorious darkness. So I filled her head with moving away from the Mountains for she was not blue, nor hairy, and though her mutation was real, it was not a hindrance, surely.

And this man, this Logan, came upon these Mountains, and nothing has ever been the same since.

One day, I was sitting in my great armchair reading the newspaper, having heard rumors that the North was overtaking the South in a war that had gone on far too long, when Rahne came to call. She had brought him along, a man of medium stature with his hard, gruff face and cold eyes staring my way. I had failed to realize how he was not surprised by the sight of a talking blue beast, a rather extraordinary find worthy of the traveling myriads roaming the country solely for the amusement of the public.

He had been shot in the head by another man, she was saying. But when I looked for his wounds, there were none. And in that same hour, I learned of his mutation and his name.

She referred to us as a sort of kinship, kindred souls who would be friends while the commonality between us was duly kept secret from the rest of the world. She trusted too well, and I fear that her best quality was also her worst. She was much too hasty so she never dreamed that he meant to betray her in the end.

Listen closely now; it's what you wanted to know all along. The truth about Logan was that he was a Tracker and his specialty was mutants. But of course, I did not know that then, and one morning woke up to find Rahne had taken a kitchen knife and killed herself because of it. To this very day, the air still carries a dank, rust-tasting quality, of blood that smells disturbingly fresh on most foggy evenings.

Three months. That's all it took, from the moment he came to the day they found her body draped over the bridge like some malicious, scandalous mishap of some Shakespearean tragedy gotten terribly out of hand. Characters are supposed to defy death, you understand; not _die_. But nothing could be done. And within the years between that incident and Jubilation's coming, the villagers at the foot of the Mountains, one by one, packed their things and moved away.

I saw it; the moment her people found out, she could not return. She came running to me, ballistic and bawling, hating herself, hating Logan, hating it all with such a stunning rage that even I became angry along with her. I should have known she meant to take her own life; I should have convinced her otherwise. Sherman had hardly waltzed into Atlanta to burn it to the ground when Rahne turned into a wolf having been provoked into her mutant form, and for days could not turn back. The villagers found out and she was shunned and there was no life in that afterwards.

And I knew they blamed me for what transpired that evening. Oh, they were looking for a scapegoat; how convenient it should be the hermit mutant living on the mountaintop, that he was blue and furry and fitting of such an accusation.

After all, the monster in the woods wasn't her; it was me.

In a way, I blame myself for it; I do. If I had only heard her screaming, if I had stopped Logan from betraying her, maybe she would be alive today and not some desperate banshee that chomps on hands and breaks windows to get inside.

There is a law of physics, the formula of counteraction: one force matched with an equal force. When you push, what you push must push back with some equivalent pressure. I believe that is what happened between Rahne and Logan, although emotion cannot be measured by numbers or correctly explained by science alone. It is something I will never know and will always regret not realizing sooner.

Because mutants can also be pushed too far, you see.

So, yes, I knew of Logan. But I wish I never did.

* * *

**22. What She Saw**

**Appalachian Trail, Fall of 1864**

That fateful night, Logan had told Rahne to wait at the bridge and she did what she was told, having developed a pure, almost reliant trust in him. He was her friend after all, and it meant everything in the world to her.

He had her waiting for a time, watching the sky darken and the land drop off to sleep. He said it was important, something that needed her attention. And she wanted so badly to believe him, even if it took all night for him to show.

Someone finally came up the walk around midnight, but it was not Logan. She thought maybe it was Beast, come to chide her for being out so late. But McCoy never saw her; no one did. And then she recognized the person as the other man with the violent teeth, the one who could not stop grinning, who had shot Logan in the head and revealed that he was a mutant. And when he saw her looking, he took off running, and she knew he intended to come after her.

Those awful War years, when the men were off to fight for a hopeless cause and people were miles from where she stood, too far away to hear her screaming for her life.

_Wouldn't someone help? Anyone?_

She didn't know his name but he had a face you'd never forget, not when he was chasing you blind in the darkness, snuffing you out like an animal, desperate for blood. And she ran, hard and fast, her skirts flapping wildly behind her as she raced to the highest point of the mountains where the moon would expose them both. Then she could turn around and see his face, his ugly, inhuman features, smiling something sinful.

He caught her before she could ever reach McCoy's.

She went down on the bridge, the hem of her skirt clutched in his claw, tangling her legs and causing her fall. His hand clamped down on her mouth and she glanced up to see the flash of his shiny, sharp teeth.

"Sabretooth!" Not a name, not a real one. She turned and saw someone else draw near, but the man did not let her go.

"You gonna stand there and watch, Wolverine?" He reached and tore at her skirt and she cried out in horror at what he intended to do. The other flinched and stepped closer. Sabretooth brought a hand to her face and smashed it against the floor of the bridge, hard enough to break her face bones. Rahne gave an agonizing wail, muffled against his hand over her mouth.

"This ain't the way!" She could feel the pressure against her head lighten as the other man grabbed at Sabretooth and pushed him off.

Her assailant gave a whoop and laughed viciously."She's a mutie, dammit! We must force it out of her! Whatever it takes."

"I didn't agree to torture them," Wolverine sneered, and his hands became sprung claws that caught the gleam of the moonlight, "just for being mutants."

Sabretooth only lashed back. "Remember what Magneto taught you! This ain't the time to change your mind! You've earned your keep."

Rahne managed to look up, to see the Wolverine staring down at her, his expression unreadable in the darkness, and saw that Logan had come after all.

"Help me," she begged him from her place on the ground. And for a moment, she thought he would.

But Sabretooth laughed at her viciously. "Help you? He knew you were a mutant all along! That's all he cared about from the beginning."

In the silence that followed save for the sound of running water under the bridge, Logan began to plead with her.

"Just turn, Rahne. Just turn already." She stared at him, horrified, finally realizing why he had come to these lonely mountains in the first place, determined all to pieces to find her; not Rahne Sinclair, but the mutant in her. Why he became her friend without revealing much about himself. Because if he dared to feel, if he dared grow a conscience, he could not do the obscene and be able to trade a mutant for money.

"You did this! You betrayed me!" It was so dismal, so outrageous. She began to laugh. She began to cry. "I trusted you," she whispered, knowing very well the man had been a traitor all along. And she had called him her friend.

Sabretooth gave Logan a hard look, as if sensing weakness. "Remember your training, Wolverine," he simply advised.

Rahne feebly got up on all fours and became a wolf. Sabretooth howled, pointing at her transformation, proving his point. "You see! Forced out!" She growled; attacked him but could not match his strength; the Sabretooth plucked her off and with a flick of his wrist sent her flying into the air as if she were as light as dust. Rahne landed a few yards away, the pain almost paralyzing the moment she slammed into the ground.

Logan ran to her but she snapped at his hands before he could even touch her. _Get away from me._ Her mind was racing_. Just git._

"The weakling can't attack you now, Logan. Magneto will be pleased that you found her," Sabretooth told him. "Now pick her up and let's go." Wolverine did not move. He just stared, long and hard at the wolf by his feet, and did nothing. So Sabretooth shrugged and promptly reached for Rahne.

The wolf suddenly came alive, grabbing his hand between her teeth, causing him to abruptly let her go. She scampered away towards the woods. And neither man pursued her.

Sabretooth remained composed and strangely unruffled. "Just as well. She'll never be able to return to her place when they find out she's a mutie. Reckon she'll come looking for us before the season's over." He glanced over at Logan and found him walking away from the bridge. "Say, where you heading to now, Wolverine?"

Logan did not acknowledge the question; just kept on walking, his legs suddenly possessed, slowly taking him from that miserable place and deep into the woods. Sabretooth watched after him in silence, vaguely aware that his hand was bleeding from the bite he had sustained, and he smiled to himself, wondering what the Wolverine might do next.

* * *

**23. Telling the Truth**

**Appalachian Trail, 1877**

Remy sat between the dying lilies watching the sun set that night. There was a faraway look in his eyes and there was no doubt in his mind that he should be getting along soon. A great number of things were running through his head at the moment. If you could read minds, his would keep you captivated for hours, thinking of things he had seen and done and what he was yet to do. And there was still so much to do.

He heard something grunt and saw Jubilation coming to join him, her Pig straggling behind at a generous distance.

"You've seen the paper then?" she asked, recognizing that strange look in his eyes, knowing he was aiming to leave. The day before, she had lit upon a local New York newspaper from a patron of her roadside sales, and having taken interest with its headlines, asked for the copy and gave it to Remy to read. "Her name was plastered all over the wedding announcements' page. Miss Jean Grey of Annadale-on-Hudson, New York. Who's the gent she's aiming to marry?"

"A Captain of de U.S. Military, stationed as far West as Utah," he replied tonelessly. So he had read it, yet needless to say he did not exactly enjoy such news. "T'ought she might have sent word, at least."

"And where exactly would she have sent it?" Jubilation teased. "Besides, that paper was dated a few weeks back. You won't make it in time if you go by foot. Just as well save your congratulations until after the honeymoon."

Remy said, "I plan t' take a freight t' New York. Dat would give me at least a week."

The girl glanced at him quickly and smiled. "You've thought this through; I'm impressed. You aim to stop the ceremony?" And when he did not reply, she asked quietly, "And what of Rogue? Will you bring her along?"

Remy's wrapped hand began to prick uncomfortably. "_Merde_," was all he said.

"That _is_ the question, isn't it?" Jubilation went on. Pig hobbled to her side and she beckoned it to lie down beside her. "You've got to get to New York, but if you take Rogue, your boss will become suspicious. You can't go any further North and get away with it. So what's a thief to do?"

"Seems like y've t'ought it through y'self, _petite_," he told her ruefully.

Jubilation placed her head against Pig's back and stared up at the sky. "Rogue hasn't talked to you since she came back from the bridge. Maybe this is the best time to leave quietly."

She was right, in a way. Remy knew he could call Sabretooth to take the job from here. He himself could accompany them to Magneto, but then he would not reach New York in time. There were two options available, he realized, but in the end, he could only choose one.

The thief suddenly got to his feet, causing Jubilation to look back at him in surprise.

"I've got t' tell her," he said, but the girl did not understand.

"What? Remy, what?" In her yellow skirt, she floundered to keep him in her line of vision.

"De truth." From a hoodlum, it was almost an act of reparation, finally. The last confession—the most important one—of trust, of transparency that meant to break her heart or break him free. Whichever; it had to be done. "An' from dere, we'll see what _she_ wants t' do."

Jubilation watched him go, draped in indigo and darkness, wondering if his heart belonged to a certain Unionist or to the quiet, fiery Dixie gal of lethal touch who thought the world of him. And Jubilation knew he was doomed either way.

* * *

**24. The Invitation**

**Appalachian Mountains, 1877**

_Now that she's back in the atmosphere with drops of Jupiter in her hair_

_She acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there's a time to change_

_Since the return of her stay at the moon, she listens like spring and she talks like June…_

_But tell me, did you sail across the sun?_

_Did you make to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded; that heaven is overrated?_

_And tell me, did you fall for a shooting star, one without a permanent scar_

_And that you missed me while you were looking for yourself out there… (1)  
_

He found her at the bridge, the twilight settling gradually as the wind ruffled her dress and sent her hair drifting in all directions. The ghost had gone; it seemed sated by Rogue's last visit and since McCoy boarded up the broken window in Jubilation's quarters, it was as if the place had never been haunted at all.

She had spoken to Beast about the ghost and what she had seen there; that much he knew. And although Remy was perturbed that she did not tell him anything at all, he set aside his pride and convinced himself that she had her reasons to act so furtive, as he had his.

He quietly wondered how she would react when she learned of his true intentions, of his interest in her powers and the lies that he told and how he would have her meet Magneto as it was part of their agreement. He had never used his powers of persuasion on her before, and he was not prepared to do so unless absolutely necessary.

She turned to him, having noticed this new presence in the otherwise ordinary silence, and his heart took off, racing a mile a minute as her eyes found his and a smile spread across her face. He did not know if he were in love or nervous or both, but he was drawn to her either way.

"Remy," she said softly, expectantly, and he had no choice but to answer her.

"_Comment tu vas_? I need t' talk t' y'," he called, closing the distance between them. The thief took a swift, wary look around, searching for invisible things that were resentful of his presence and aimed to hurt his other hand. "Still visitin' de _revenant_?"

Her mouth twisted into a playful frown. "The ghost absquatulated," she told him as-a-matter-of-factly. "Reckon yah would've noticed by now."

"Reckon y' never told me what happened here." He shot her a look and she grinned at him, all mischief.

"Man alive; sounds like yah don't like bein' left out."

"Only where it concerns y'," he said through set teeth. He placed his forearms over the railing and leaned in close so that his arm brushed hers. She raised an eyebrow but did not move away.

They watched the darkness in silence for a spell while a reassuring calm settled over them along with the cold. "Yah told me Logan was a legend, but never for what," she finally said. "Reckon the ghost knew more than the both of us put together."

Remy narrowed his eyes and became serious. "Tell me what happened," he urged.

She took in a hesitant breath and held it. "Logan was a Tracker, and he once lived in these mountains. Ah believe that when Ah touched him, Ah might've…absorbed some of his memories along with his lahfe. Ah've never been here before but everythin' is familiar. Even Beast at times; Ah could swear Ah've met him before. But it wasn't me; it was Logan all this time." She shook her head, and Remy realized she had turned sad in remembering him. "We were admirin' the wrong kind of man, Rems. That girl died 'cause of what he did…an' suppose he wasn't bad when Ah met him, but he was a traitor back in the day, and that still counts for somethin'." She raked the back of her hand across her face, abruptly loosening the tears sparking the corners of her eyes. She laughed humorlessly, and Remy risked a look in her direction.

"Is dat what y' saw?" He pressed, taking her gloved hand in his good one. "When y' met de ghost?"

She nodded dully, a weary response. "Ah think Ah saw a mix of his memories and the ghost's. But he was no legend, Remy. Juss a fraud. A complete fraud." Remy stiffened at the darkness of her words, heavy with revulsion.

He stroked her hand intently, caressing the fine points of her finger bones, focusing his attention at kneading his concern into her palm.

"We like t' admire de evil in people, _beb_. Years from now, y'll never hear 'bout Robert Ford but Jesse James. Billy de Kid. Legends. Not good people, no Rogue, not good people at all. But legends anyway." He stopped suddenly, catching her looking at him as distrust and anger clouded the brightness of her eyes. "Me, I'd admire Logan either way." He didn't know why he had said it, because at the moment he sure as hell didn't believe it; perhaps Logan reminded him a lot like himself at the time.

Rogue was instantly repelled by his loyalty. "Ah won't," she spat, retracting her hand and crinkling her eyes. "Glad he's gone. Cain't hurt another soul, livin' lahke he did."

"Rogue…"

"No!" She half-sobbed into her hand, chewing her bottom lip, her eyes tearing across his face. "Ah won't," she added with conviction, quieter now, swallowing her sadness and doubting her good memories of Logan. Remy wondered what was flitting through her mind as she finally realized the man she had admired all her life was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated lie.

She suddenly turned to him again, her eyes alight and peculiar. "Ah ain't sorry he's dead."

Remy nodded. "Maybe he didn't intend for y' t' know. He left dat life behind de day he met you." He vaguely realized he was defending the Legend; or perhaps, his story of the Legend. Maybe he wanted to believe it himself.

"Well, Ah've opined better when Ah didn't know what Ah know now." She smiled sadly, and Remy had a mind to realize this hurt her deeper than words. The news had struck a chord, had shaken everything she believed to be real and right in her world. The truth was an ugly thing, a necessary thing, and she was not the same person because of it.

"Well." She hurriedly composed herself again, wiping the last of her tears away and taking a deep breath. "Reckon Ah won't be goin' up North tah find Xavier after all, Remy. Ah am sorry Ah wasted yah time; no friend of Logan's could ever be a friend of mine." And then she saw the newspaper forgotten between his hands and turned curious.

"What's that yah got?" she asked. But before he could explain, she snatched it from his hands and unfolded it. Her eyes grew wide as they flew across the page.

"So that's her," she said with a note of finality, the corners of her mouth attempting a smile. "Yah Northern girl, Ah take it."

Remy should have demanded it back but was powerless to force it from her. She gazed down at the picture, knowing black-and-white did not do it much justice. "Sure is pretty," Rogue said, meaning it, and handed back the paper. There was a wistful look in her eye, trying so desperately to contain the sudden disappointment flaring in her chest.

"So is that what yah came tah tell me?" she wondered, noticing he hadn't answered back as quickly as he might have in the past.

Remy stared at her, searching her face. If she were heartbroken over Logan now, his own truth-telling would just about kill her.

So he took her hand and said, "I'm off t' New York, _chere_." She nodded, staring off into the distance. "An' I'd like if y'd come with me."

Rogue turned her head to him then, a bright, dazzling smile stretching across her face. "Suppose a train would git there faster," she offered, and Remy couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

**25. **_**Atropa Belladonna**_

_**Une Boucherie **_**Slag House, near Tennessee, 1877**

She was sitting at the booth as she had instructed in her letter, suspiciously alone at an hour like this. Some stragglers were at the piano, singing some dandy of a song out of tune, and the barkeep glanced his way briefly, but nothing else kept his attention more than that blonde smoking her fancy cigarettes until they just about burned the tips of her fingers.

He remembered seeing something somewhere on McCoy's Concoctions that Really Work involving uses for Deadly Nightshade; _atropa belladonna_; a warning, if any, to never betray a pretty lady.

Creed grinned down at her, recognizing the rarity of meeting a gorgeous girl who had the potential to do some harm. _Atropa belladonna_, eat your heart out.

"Belladonna Boudreaux?"

The lady in the indigo velvet smock tipped her head towards him. "Depends who's askin'."

"Victor Creed, accomplice to Magneto. Reckon you've read his offer by now."

She reached into her brasserie and pulled out a telegraph note. "I have," she told him lightly, offering the seat across from her.

"We could use your expertise," Creed put in, leaning against the wall instead as she sat smoking her cigarettes and shifting her gaze aimlessly around the room. "Figure it should be a very easy job for someone with your experience."

"No mutant is easy t' capture, Monsieur Creed. I've only been doin' so for a few years an' I'm quite acquainted; they're a sneaky breed, dose bastards. One is never quite like de next."

Creed reached into his knapsack and drew out the pile of papers Remy had sent ahead of him. He handed the packet to the blonde. "We're willing to give you double what the government pays for this stint."

Belladonna raised an eyebrow, glancing over the first page. "De Rogue Murderer dat popular?"

Creed said, "You've seen what she could do."

Belladonna pouted a little and placed the papers on the table. "Still alive then? _Merde_; such a waste of bullets." She flicked cigarette ash unto the floor and frowned, ruefully shaking her head. "My only question is why your boss wants a human like _moi_ t' deliver de goods."

"Guess the concern isn't her, but who she's with."

Briefly, their eyes met; and Belladonna began to laugh. "Running around with a married man; what would her _Maman_ say?" And then she turned quiet, watching the candlelight flicker in the fog of her cigarette smoke. "Though I have t' admit, always did prefer my victims served w' a side of slander. Draws de big bucks."

Creed was congenial enough. "This is a business, ma'am. We prefer to protect our investments. Especially when they have cause to run away."

Belladonna twisted her mouth into a smile and turned her eyes on Creed. "LeBeau not puttin' up his end of de bargain, eh? _Mais_, he does like t' play with de things dat he finds…Reckon I'll just have t' visit my husband at work then."

"In due time."

"_Mais_, _oui_. I know how dese t'ings work, _catin_."

Creed pulled a sachet from his coat pocket and threw it on the table. Coins clattered inside as it hit the counter with a generous _thump_.

"Half the payment in advanced. Get us the girl and we'll give you the rest when you do." Creed pushed off the wall and started for the door, abruptly ending their exchange.

Belladonna watched him for a second. "An' what will _y'_ do in de meantime?" She wanted to know.

Creed looked over his shoulder and flashed his toothy grin. "I'm gonna find me a Legend."

Belladonna kicked out a foot impatiently as the man slipped out of the bar. Mutants _are_ a sneaky breed, she decided.

Putting out the last of her cigarette, Belladonna turned her attention to the pile of papers before her and began to read.

* * *

**End Notes:**

"And look upon myself, and curse my fate" from Shakespeare's Sonnet #29

"The Soul selects her own Society" from Emily Dickinson's Poem #303

_(1) Train_. Drops of Jupiter. A must listen and it SO has everything to do with that scene (hehe).

Oh Hank McCoy. Your educated manner evades me. I was watching the older X-Men cartoon series for reference, and he was quoting poetry and hanging from the ceiling, so I thought I'd give him a chance at a POV, because really, telling it all from the dead's POV is kinda-sorta hard. But so was McCoy's. Oh well. And you should know that interpreting poetry is not my thing; I read a line I like, I take it as it is. Not "Shakespeare meant this, but could have meant that" and all that nonsense. If you like that sort of thing, all the more power to ya! I'm just saying, if you got a point to get across, don't beat around the bush. Just say it already! Which is why I did not do so hot on my AP Language exam, which was eons ago. But I digress.

I did myself a favor and finally did it: start a blog that is! It's just a little something on the side, nothing fancy, but I will dedicate it to inspiration and little blurbs dealing with this story. So if you're ever so inclined to know what's goes on in my head beyond the beginning and end notes of every chapter, come over and visit me! I tell you now: it's hard finding inspiration for American 19th Century, with computers and technology and having to deal with the reality that Westerns aren't cool nowadays except when it features Jackie Chan (but that's okay, because I heart Jackie Chan!). But I guess that's what makes it fun, eh? Oh, and I update it more than this story, because it doesn't have to be perfect :D[ ariesque . blogspot. com] (should take out spaces though).

In regards to this chapter (finally), I have to say it was really, seriously hard to stay focused on writing its angst (although I have experience writing the genre. A lot of experience as prior and future chapters will tell you). But you know, the right music and mood always helps (I play "Mad World" by Gary Jules on repeat, and then I have to wear my bangs long and cry myself to sleep...j/k [OR AM I?]) And so we've come full circle (sorta), with the truth about Logan (Tracker!) in relation to Remy (also Tracker!). History, I'm afraid, has a bad habit of repeating itself, and will do so in this story. Anyone like (hate) that revelation about Jean? But you know, at least he's taking Rogue so it won't turn out so bad...or will it?

As you can see, I am so excited to be writing this tonight, because I get to hear from my readers again! If you'd like to dissect any of the intentions of my characters, I have no qualms with that. Or questions? I can take a few of those too. Really, I've got until November til the real world begins for me. So, humor me and leave a review okay!

Reviewers with accounts: expect a comment from me in your inbox!

Doesn't Matter: Good to see you back! I was wondering where you dropped off to, and it was such a pleasure to have you back! I'm really glad you liked this sequence; it was a little harder to write as it deviated from the previous chapters in which I would introduce characters from the past to offset the present. Part 4 dealt in the present for the most part. AND it had a ghost, which was the kicker, because heck if I know how to write a ghost story. But I'm so glad you like Jubilation; her relationship with Remy I based more on the old X-Men series because she wasn't a big part in Evo, but neither was Remy...Hope you check back soon to witness more of the drama you love unfold!

Next stop: New York! The Legend Returns! And (another) wedding is set...to be ruined? Only one way to find out...


	17. Seventeen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Been stuck in writer's limbo, and it's not a nice place to be. I believe in inspiration, in writer types, and if I were commissioned for my story, I would probably not earn a thing. But here I am, still committed to write until the ideas stop flowing. Thanks for being patient with me and my flighty muse. Part Five focuses on New York, though not as much of the place as the people that haunt it. Oh, and Logan too. Enjoy, folks.

Thanks to **aiRo25** for another wonderful beta! It's always a pleasure, sending my chapter your way.

* * *

**Part Five: New York**

**MAN RESSURECTS FROM THE DEAD!**

**Mississippi Chronicle **

**September 30, 1877**

Three graveyard employees witnessed a miracle of miracles as a man broke through his makeshift casket and came back to life yesterday afternoon at the City Cemetery.

The coroner would like a statement, and so would the rest of the state, preachers and sinners alike.

He is described as a white man, black hair and eyes, of medium height, last seen wearing dusty jeans and a button-down shirt.

Anyone who knows any details about this case should contact the Chronicle's Office and the Sheriff immediately.

* * *

**1. The Resurrection**

**City Cemetery, Jackson, Mississippi, Summer of 1877**

It was a miserably humid day as Gilbert hauled over another dead one, the fifth coffin that morning. They had started burying earlier in the day, but the sun had finally caught up to them, and by noon they still had one more box to drop into the ground. That and lunchtime was just about done by now. "Got another one, o'er 'ere, boys." He dragged the box to the others digging up another hole for another poor soul, dead as a doornail.

"Where'd this one come from?" Jethro regarded the wooden box with a touch of disrespect, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Looks heavy as hell."

"Picked it off from the folks down in Caldecott. Said they want it buried straight away. No funeral, no nothin'."

"Must've been a criminal." This from Henry who always supposed such things.

"Should've been burned." Jethro took his shovel and slammed it against the dirt, thoroughly hating his job.

Henry said, "Maybe they wanted to save him, the poor devil. Spared him eternal damnation. How you get to heaven with no body?"

"There ain't no such thing," spat Jethro.

"There's a hell but no heaven, Lord've mercy."

"Well, it's been riding out here for a week now. Practically rotted in the sun. Help me haul him over," said Gilbert. The other men abandoned their digging and scurried out of the hole just as the box jumped, someone hammering from within the makeshift coffin.

"Did you see _that_!" Henry was astonished. The box moved again, more forceful this time.

"What the—" Gilbert hardly had time to shield his face, right before a whole fist punched through the lid.

Logan himself did not believe in God. But when he broke free of the wooden box and stood up, he had done made them all believers.

Logan let them ogle as he loosened his muscles, having been jammed in a too-tight coffin for almost a week.

The gravediggers fell to their knees, stunned with this sudden apparition, eyes big as porcelain saucers. Logan glared at them with disdain. "Damn righteous," he grunted and spat into the dirt.

Already a full-blown spectacle, Logan walked away like the miracle that he was while the gravediggers stared after him, too frightened to object when the dead took Jethro's canteen on his way out.

* * *

**2. Waffles**

**Paul's Cabin, Outskirts of New York, 1877**

When Remy said that he wanted something to eat, Rogue thought he meant finding a river or shooting geese from the sky or maybe try their luck on the grounds to look for last season's strawberries at the freight's next stop. So when he took her to see Paul, she was more than a little surprised—grateful, even—to be sitting at an actual table, waiting for waffles, and not squatting under some tall brush in the middle of nowhere, hungry enough to hunt for food.

Paul owned a little cabin on the border between Pennsylvania and New York. He was a mutant sympathizer—said so himself, throwing Remy a sidelong grin as he set a platter before Rogue. "I thought all the mutants had gone, at one point or another. Moved out, or at least scattered, by now. But Remy, I suppose, still thinks of me when passing through." He asked no questions, just left them to their breakfast as he went back outside.

"It's amazing, how many people yah know," Rogue was saying, ravenously pulling apart her waffle. "Reckon it was a good thing yah ran into me that day." How easily she spoke of it, without tears sparking her eyes for once. She ate quickly and stopped only when she noticed Remy watching her with an expression she could not read. "Yes?" she asked impatiently, suddenly aware that her plate was nearly empty while Remy's was hardly touched.

He smiled—a little sadly, she thought. "Might've stopped at thet last town," he said, and she realized he regretted seeing her starve. "Sorry."

"Don't be." She shook her head, embarrassed that he should be apologizing. "Ah'm jus' hungry, is all." The rations Jubilation had given them had run out a few days before, but Rogue was not one to complain first, so she was more than a little glad when he finally decided to speak up for the both of them.

Remy did not seem convinced. "Reckon it wasn't such a good idea, taggin' along?" He had never asked her that before, and she had never thought to consider it.

"'Fraid it's too late for that." She laughed a little, trying to lighten the mood, and finished her waffle in a few quick bites. "Say, Paul's the first human yah've taken me tah." Rogue smiled, her eyes quickly scanning the small kitchen. "He's nice."

Remy smirked, amused that she approved. "Ain't enough of 'em in dese parts," he agreed, moving his own plate before Rogue. She did not object and proceeded to tear the waffle into pieces. He watched her eat in her quick, quiet way, wondering what in hell he was doing there, watching her eat. Didn't he want to go through this? He would not bear it, failing Magneto again. He was forgetting himself, losing his will to a girl sitting across from him, eating a waffle. In the dim light, she was remarkably ordinary, save for that pale stripe falling into her face. Just once, he wanted to reach over and put it back behind her ear without having her flinch at his touch. How ordinary it would be then, to feel this way about her.

"Stop staring at me lahke that," she said softly, though she really did not mean it.

And for once, Remy looked away, afraid he might have seen too much.

* * *

**3. Postman**

**Whistle Stop, Alabama: 1877**

Logan came upon the mail station just on the outskirts of Alabama. The man at the counter was short and balding, sorting letters to be taken to all corners of the country. Logan stepped inside the small office, rubbing at his knuckles out of habit and allowed the door to close behind him.

"Here to mail a letter, bub," he told the old mailman who looked at him in a surprised sort of way, as if he had not seen another living, breathing thing for a long time.

"Well, where is it?"

"I haven't written it yet. Got no paper."

"Well, that'll be a penny a sheet."

"I got a penny." He fished into his pocket and pulled out the single coin.

"And it'll be twenty-five cents to mail it."

Logan emptied the contents of his pockets. "I've got three cigarettes and fifteen cents. Will that do?"

The man sighed, regarding Logan through his dusty bifocals. He did not seem like a man to be trifled with. And besides, the postman preferred himself a smoke once in awhile. "I suppose. Where will you be sending it?"

"Philadelfy," Logan replied. He took the paper from the man and borrowed a pencil from the counter. He began_, Dearest Ro…_

Logan glanced up and caught sight of a Wanted poster with Marie's face plastered across the front. He had never seen anything quite like it, and it was strange seeing the girl in a different medium, the large, glaring letters floating above her head like a death sentence.

The postman saw him staring and said, "That'll be the Rogue Murderer, yessuh. Wanted for killing two people back in Caldecott, Mississippi. They said she escaped hanging and is still on the loose." He picked up the cigarettes Logan had placed on the counter, giving them a critical glare. "Rumor says she's a mutant."

Logan tried not to seem bothered by that. "Mutant, huh?" He finished writing and folded the paper neatly between his stubby fingers as the man turned his back briefly, searching for something he didn't need.

"Well, stranger things have happened around here. Just the other day some devil came back from the dead and done scared his gravediggers half to death."

Logan couldn't resist a smirk. "That's a helluva story," he said.

The man huffed a little. "Well, it's true. It's not every day dead people come walking through your front door." Logan handed him the letter and tipped the brim of his hat. The postman noticed he had not written a return address on the envelope. "You have a nice day, mister."

"Same to you," Logan returned pleasantly and shut the door after him.

The mailman put the letter in the bag along with the others destined for places up North, sorted for a spell, and after awhile, looked up to find the Rogue's Wanted poster missing from its place on the wall.

* * *

**4. Peace**

**Paul's Cabin, Outskirts of New York, 1877**

Remy did not like the way Paul stared at Rogue. His eyes were calculating, caught between stern brows and shadows creeping into his face as he sat, watching Rogue from the opposite side of the room. She took no notice, having been too busy fussing about Remy's hand, asking for a bowl of salt water to clear up the wound. That was how Beast had taught her, and Remy was amazed how much she actually paid attention, patient as a school girl as she bandaged his hand.

But Remy was thinking of Paul, wanting to know the reason behind the dread rising into his pallid face as he stared at Rogue.

He was still thinking about it when Rogue flipped over the covers on her side of the bed, easing in between the sheets. He felt her body heat from his place above the blankets, lying stiffly by her side. She rolled her head towards him, stopping a good, safe distance away, but close enough that he noticed she had touched up her roots with bleach.

"It's nice," she said, almost sultry in her sleepiness, "to lie in a bed once in awhile."

Riding the freight rails had left them both bitter and cold and sleepless enough to bicker about it the whole trip north. He had starved her and let her sleep in impractical tin boxes, and yet she couldn't stop following him around.

"Reckon yah're quiet tonight." She opened her eyes briefly, a small smile on her lips. "Too damn quiet. Somethin' up?"

"Hell, I should ask y' de same thing. Sleepin' in de same bed as me?"

"That's the bluff, ain't it?" Her smile widened and he felt blessed to witness it. "Who'll back down first an' sleep on the floor?" She nestled deeper into the sheets, probably amazed with being so comfortable. Remy noticed how her color deepened the warmer she got. "Tell yah now: not me."

Remy put his beer down, hating the way it tasted in his mouth. He felt foul. Paul looked at her funny, and he was going nuts over it.

"Yah think it's easy?"

Her voice, calling him back to earth. "What?"

"Readin' yah mind." She rose an eyebrow. "Yah worryin'."

"Am I?" he asked, innocent, his lips gathering into a smirk. "Remy never worries."

"Yeah, yeah. Swamp rat." Her name for him, rightfully deserved. He nodded in agreement. "Yah know what gets me?"

"Chatty. Y' talk a lot when y' happy."

She ignored that, but smiled. "How yah ever did this kinda thing alone."

Remy thought about that, admiring her observation. "Yeah? It's easier. Quieter too, travelin' by myself." She rolled her eyes, just for him. "But it's nice, f' a change. Pretty _femme _like y', might get used t' it." He meant what he implied, but she was fading fast, abandoning herself to sleep, losing him along the edge of her pillow. The bed claimed her and she was a goner, drifting along, so that by the time Remy put his arm around her, she believed it a dream and kept dreaming, the rain pattering softly outside.

Amazing, he thought, this peace; such safety. And yet, he didn't trust it.

* * *

**5. Leftover Toad**

**A few months before, Tennessee, 1877**

The night was a troubling one. Thunder storms and rain clouds left him muddy and sopping wet. He could just smell the earthy richness lingering between dirt and sky before the rains even came. But the heavy drops could not wash away that undeniable scent—_her_ scent—so engrained and marked in his mind, familiar and automatic as a habit.

Logan followed it here to this shabby, run-down abandoned house, set apart from the rest of the nearby town, nearly twenty miles away. He took a long drink from his canteen, pausing only to take in the scenery. Not a soul in sight, though his nose told him otherwise. Something dank and rotten and alive was well rooted in the place. But there were secrets there that needed to be kept hidden. Several doors led to nowhere and he found only one correct entrance. Logan followed the corridor, noting how her scent had all but faded by then. The place reeked of old coffee and gunpowder and something spoiled, like food gone sour.

Movement caught his eye. Claws reared, he curved his hands into fists and proceeded deeper in the hideout, kicking locked doors open until he caught sight of someone crouched toad-like on the floor in one room. The rotten smell was almost unbearable now, and when he approached the person, something flew at his face. Spittle, he believed, and now things were going to get ugly.

The person jumped up and over him. In the split second that followed, Logan could just see a long, slimy tongue pull the door shut.

Logan tried the knob but the door would not budge. But it would take more than a wood to keep him out. A punch and kick later, Logan managed to plow through. Spittle, like acid, rained down and he had to duck to avoid being struck in the face. A person crouched low to the ground, his knees drawn up to his head. A mutant, Logan decided. A defensive one. But this was no contest: Logan knocked the man to the ground with a hand at his throat and brought his claws right close to his face.

"_Enough_!" Logan roared, furious now. "Stay still…" But the Toad groaned and wept, squirming in Logan's tight grip fastened around his neck, his frog face scrunched in horror.

"I've done nothing! Nothing!" And he bent his head and wailed so pitifully, Logan almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Where is she?" Logan shoved his fist further into the Toad's face, giving him a good eyeful of steel. Where's Marie?"

The mutant blubbered. "W-Who?"

"Marie. Marie was here; don't you start with me..."

"I don't know no Marie,"—the Toad sniveled—"b-but there was a Rogue. She was heading North, last I heard." And then, a spark of recognition, and his face was frozen in awe. "You're the Legend then? She said she kilt you."

Logan flinched outwardly, relaxing his grip. "Guess she was wrong." The air was stifling with a multitude of scents mixed with Marie's. But there was that certain smell Logan could not decipher: a tinge of cigarettes, well-worn clothes, faint bourbon and dried blood, which followed the girl here and forward. "She traveling with someone?"

The question was left unanswered. Toad had slipped away, probably hiding, though his stench could give him away for miles. No matter; Logan was not concerned about the Toad. As long as he followed Marie's scent, he could catch up shortly, easy. Her companion did not smell familiar, but Logan figured such a person might have moved on by now and did not dwell on his identity.

The Legend did not stay long, slipping away from Tennessee as quietly as he came, building momentum like a force of vengeance as he crossed the border into Kentucky within a matter of days.

* * *

**6. Trap**

**Paul's Cabin, Outskirts of New York, 1877**

Paul woke Remy early the next morning, wanting to take in the buckets of rainwater placed outside to use later that day. Remy did not ask questions, but rolled out from his place by Rogue's side. She hardly stirred, bewitched by her own dreams, and he felt her pull, heavy as gravity, coaxing him back to bed. But it was wicked to wake her, so he went without telling her, thinking he would be back long before she woke.

He walked with his friend, regarding the silence as a sort of respect. Somewhere along the way, a line had been crossed, but Remy did not know where to backtrack, to start from the beginning again. He had just assumed they were still friends, but walking close, talk sparse between them, he realized he didn't know Paul as well as he did then. Paul had married, Remy remembered with a gentle prod of regret, knowing there was no wife or kid in sight.

There was something wrong about all of this. Collecting rain buckets? Remy should never have left that room which kept his most valuable secret, the miracle-girl, to go off with a man who was practically a stranger by now.

The rain had lightened considerably into a damp, dense fog. They walked for awhile, deep into the woods, and Remy did not ask about the quiver in Paul's voice when the man mentioned the weather. The wife, Remy decided to blame. She left him? Remy did not know her, but he knew Paul, and seeing him now made him queasy, nervous with apprehension. He was hiding something fancy in the woods of this forest. That peace Remy felt beside Rogue back at the cabin was something almost dreamlike, impossible. Out here, it was like walking into a trap…

Remy stopped, finally seeing the crack in Paul's steady veneer. He looked over his shoulder cautiously, sensing trouble, expecting a full-on ambush to jump out and surround him.

"Paul?" It was like calling across a ridge, how far away that man seemed.

The silence stretched—a chasm between them. "Get on, Rems," Paul said, slowing to a halt, nodding off towards the distance.

Remy knew what he meant but lagged now, struggling to stay, knowing it was the wrong thing to do. "C'mon,_ mon ami_. We go back. You would never…"

"I've called the police." Such power, what the law meant, but Remy hardly batted an eyelash. Paul's eyes tightened but he didn't look away. That was Paul—could stare you down, though he was the one at fault. "Take off now, get a head start."

Remy couldn't believe it. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, swaying a little with the wind, his feet firmly rooted in place, the silence so complete, it made his ears ache.

"I said, _git_!" Paul shattered then, Remy knowing he would. He shoved the thief forward, out of desperation, but Remy did not budge. Not until he knew what he was in for.

"Tell me what you've done," the thief said, finally, slowly, his voice sounding hushed in his fury. He could hear others closing in from all sides—foreign footsteps cracking dry leaves and twigs, madly echoing in the emptiness of it all.

Paul must have heard the anger in his voice, trying to match it with his own. "Fucking mutie, dragged me into this mess. You did this to me! To them!" His voice broke, racked suddenly with sobs.

"Tell me what's happened," Remy said quietly, letting him cry. He was confused but alert, keenly sensing the police approaching them—fast.

"They've got my family."

"Dey?"

"Assassins." The word, its implied meaning, saying it all. Remy clenched his teeth, saying nothing. "They've got my family. Said they'd shoot them dead if I didn't help." He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. "I had no choice. They wanted the girl, and said to get rid of you."

The men appeared, dressed in winter coats, guns drawn, waiting to fill Remy with lead.

"Hands where we can see them, LeBeau," someone called out, as a shiver of anger ran through his heart.

Remy always hated that, how others knew his name and tried to use it against him. But he obeyed, his red eyes never lifting from Paul who looked on, tears sliding down his face. The men filed through efficiently—familiarly, Remy thought—hooking their arms through the thief's, dragging him away. It was not until he saw the wagon they brought along that he swung around, looking dead at Paul, wanting to make him understand.

"Dey fuckin' played you, _homme_. Y' family—dey already dead."

Something heavy struck his face and Remy collapsed in their arms, allowing them to drag him deadweight the rest of the way.

Once inside the wagon, the men—there were five of them—surrounded him. He sat with his hands suddenly tied before him, face throbbing, and they drove a while without saying anything. He did not recognize any of them. But the way they handled their guns, the death streak painted plainly on their faces—he knew they weren't the police. Law and order meant nothing at that point; they did not mean to keep him alive long.

Remy looked back at the house, his eyes finding her window, wondering if she could see them, wondering what she would make of all of this. His last thoughts, he realized bitterly, looking to Rogue and coming up short.

_Get away_, he wanted to warn her. But even that was too late.

**…**

Rogue gave the knob another rattle. It wouldn't budge. Someone had locked it from the outside. She dressed quickly, accidentally knocking over the bottle of bleach she had used last night, noticing Remy's unfinished beer on the counter. She swigged that down, all the while knowing his lips had been there first. It comforted her, somehow. As if he were still there beside her. Damn LeBeau, she swore in her head, never should have left the room.

It was by chance, really, that Rogue happened to look out the window and notice Paul standing with two other men, and it wasn't until Paul pointed up at her room that she understood he had been talking about her. They walked into the house shortly afterwards, and Rogue stood at the door, straining to hear.

"You sure it's her?" The stranger's voice floated up to her room and she felt the blood go thin in her head.

"Swear it. Come see for yourself."

"That's not necessary." A lethal pause followed. A struggle; a body slammed against the floorboards, shaking the furniture.

"What are you _doing_?" This from Paul, sounding shrill and astounded, causing Rogue to shudder.

"_Desole, monsieur_. We have orders."

"But Belladonna said…" A single gunshot rang out. Something heavy hit against the ground and Rogue heard nothing else for a time.

She clutched at the knob so hard, her fingers hurt. There would be no use running; that they would take her without offering another option. Like hell she could not get away. Not alone, and certainly not from Belladonna.

And then, a blast of something, breaking through the bottom floor. Rogue was suddenly thrown off her feet as the house rocked with explosions. She covered her head with her arms and cowered against the far wall, bracing for the worst. But the house settled calmly and she heard someone walk through the front door, crushing debris underfoot. There was a scuffle downstairs, that much she knew. People were yelling. Something was thrown—hard—against a wall. And then, nothing. She sat there, watching the door, trying to breathe, struggling to peel off her gloves in a hurry.

Footsteps then—becoming louder, thicker, heavier until they paused in front of her room. The knob was tried, once, twice. Finally, the door was kicked in with one drastic, powerful blow, and Rogue ducked behind the bed, shaking bad, her bare hands finding the floorboards quick.

The wood creaked under sturdy black boots. They walked around the bed, and Rogue risked a look, turning her head to see the assailant, hoping instead for Remy.

The person saw the girl on the floor and took a step back, startled. She noticed the red gleam of his bifocals and thought of Remy, knowing it wasn't him_. _She stared at the man fiercely, her mistrust daring him to try and lay his hands on her. But when he finally seemed to gather his senses, it was her turn to be surprised.

"Anna Marie?"

She had not heard her name in such a long time, and coming from a stranger so far from home, she felt almost careless when the tears stung her eyes.

"Anna Marie," he said again, confidently this time, and when he approached her, she looked away so that he would not see her cry. "That is your name, isn't it?"

He sounded almost relieved, and she did not immediately flinch when his hand came to rest on her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she saw him smiling at her, a warm, pleasant smile that encouraged her to trust him.

"My name is Scott Summers," he said, kneeling down before her, his bifocals so red she could not see beyond their glinting scarlet. "Xavier has been looking for you."

* * *

**Endnotes**: Yes, I realize this is shorter. Yes that took twice as long to write. But I thought it was an appropriate break to take. I'm sort of toying with Logan's POV, seeing that I haven't really had much practice, being that he's been dead all this time... So let me know what you speculate might happen, now that Scott's in the picture, Logan has returned, and Remy is scooting out...Rogue's got her hands full and she don't even know it yet...but who doesn't love a little (or a lot of) drama in a good story? Not me, tell you now. Not me ;P

Remember Paul? Good ol' Paul from the Evo series, who fixed cars, was friends with Kitty, was caught gawking at the television when the mutants were outted...who could forget? Just thought I'd put that out there: didn't make him up. Didn't last that long either, now that I think of it. O well.

Bear in mind, I am attempting to go out on a limb here. An experimentation of sorts that involves the least popular (judging from past fanfiction experience) mutants of the gang. And it really is a departure of what I have written (see past fics, Snow in April, Rogue's Diary), but I think I'm ready and I think it's time I do them a little justice. So, yes, I'm asking you all to trust me on this venture, having gotten this far already; last thing I want is to turn anyone away. Guess I'm asking for your unyielding faith from here on forward. Yes, that's asking a lot, isn't it? But hey, you're reading this after all, so I must be dong something right, right?

Send me some love/hate/hey-you're still-there! reviews my way, k! Can't wait to hear what you think.

**Thank you to my lovely reviewers:**

**Rogueslove22:** Yes! Blind faith! Music to my ears:D I'm gonna hold out hope for Rogue and Remy, regardless what he reveals. Just to make things interesting, right? LOL, love your strong reaction to Belladonna-I love writing her evil. She makes her own rules, that's for sure.

**ishandahalf:** I admit, you're on to me: gotta toss in Jean to make things a little more complex for Remy and Rogue. Thanks for the rave on Hank's POV-now that was a hard character to assume. I think because there are enough of us out there to expect him to act a certain way, and to meet that expectation is crucial for a successful POV. But, I'm preaching to the choir! I like to think the drama is worth the read. Thanks for the review!

**SparklesIntheSun:** I'm a fan of the alternative, what can I say? Drops of Jupiter has also been on my playlist, so including it here was a treat to myself. And to answer your Jean question: yes, that wasn't much of a revelation, sorry to confuse you. But I will explain it all soon. It's not as bad as you might think, though, if you want a hint.

**Scott has a pole up his ass:** Hey, I'm back from hiding in my shell now and I'm sorry it took so long! Judging by your byline, you are gonna love/hate Part Five. Don't know for sure, but I hope you're willing to find out! Sorry this chapter wasn't as long-the following ones will hopefully suits your reading needs! Was going for a somewhat sympathy card in regards to Rahne, but in retrospect, her death sent Logan away from his path of destruction. I'll touch a little upon that in later chapters.

**ShadowFax999:** If you're talking Pride and Prejudice, I love that BBC series, and the book's not half-bad either, though it is a pain to get through. And about your theory of the North-I won't guarantee anything, but you're on the right track...stay tuned!

**Ace-of-Cyberspace13:** Aw, thanks, bud! It's always a pleasure to know I'm doing something right with my readers!

**Indigo-Night-Wisp:** I know, I know. I have a mind to go back and just correct the whole thing, but never have the heart or the patience to. The Rogue's Diary Series was a pet project that spoiled me with reviews, have to admit. But I love where you're getting at: I was younger then, bright-eyed about the world of writing, and what better than to focus on my favorite series? But I've always reserved a soft spot for American history, having always marveled at the different countries and states these mutants originated from, and putting this story together is like a dream come true for me. It's my baby right now, scary as that sounds, and that's why it's the way it is...slow and steady. I guess it is also a chance to redeem myself-to show a depth I've never cared to write. That's why I have to put Jean and Scott into it-they aren't very popular in fanfiction, and it is a challenge to defend their characters altogether. And even though I don't care for them on an individual basis, I do like them together (that whole Emma Frost thing puts me into a funk. I'd rather see Jean and Scott married and in love). Some of the best fanfiction stories I've read are about Scott and Jean-ain't that a kick in the head? So that's my short-version story behind my writing progression. What I've written before is still a part of my work, and what I focus on now is trying to do better. Can only go forward, right? Lol, sorry, just about talked your ear off. But hey, glad you came along for the ride when you did! Hope you'll never regret it.

**the-writing-vampire:** No problemo. I sort of phase out of a story myself, even it's its really good, just to get to the better parts. LOL. But yes, you're right, Remy can relate more to Logan. In fact, they are a parallel in my story (whoa, just used a literary term. better slow down ;D). Guess I'm just sticking to the way history likes to repeat itself...and what Logan did before, Remy might do now. Let's just wait and see, shall we?

**Crack4Sure**: Of course you love Belladonna. Someone has to! ;D

Up Next: Six degrees of separation and how it all has to do with Rogue. In the meantime, send a review why doncha?


	18. Eighteen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Happy Holidays, dear readers! If I tell you straight up what this chapter is about, I honestly don't believe you'd read it. But hey, my beta liked it. Thanks aiRo25 for taking the brunt of this; it's much appreciated.

* * *

**7. The Stranger**

**Paul's Cabin, Outskirts of New York, 1877**

Scott Summers was no fool. He could tell she wasn't buying his attempt at kindness when he offered his hand and she ignored it like the Plague. She was a touch above what he had imagined: scraggly, young, scared, but the fierce streak of rebellion rising in her eyes, threatening another American Revolution, surprised him. Logan's Kin looked nothing like the Legend but acted just as sore and bold as the man had ever been. Or so Scott thought.

He backed away as she righted herself off the floor, taking care to notice the gloves wadded up in one bare hand. She was taller than he expected; prettier too, with an unusual white stripe of hair falling into her face. Blunt and defensive, the girl was everything he admired in most women—and then some.

"How do you know my name?" Her voice was heavy with an accent belonging to the South. Certainly she was Dixie, he realized; a Northern lady would never have demanded such a thing from a gentleman. And such grit she had; Scott might have seen tears spark her eyes before, but there was nothing but that hard, measuring gaze in this instant.

"Same way I know Xavier." He shrugged. "Logan."

She shook her head slowly, her voice quieter, warning: "Don't." She took a step back, sizing him up in those dense, scarlet bifocals. "Don't say his name, don't say mine."

Scott was tempted to object, but her gaze never wavered, daring him to defy her. So he relented, realizing there was no other way to win over her trust. "I'm sorry, miss. I didn't know…" A wary pause followed as he took in the girl holding her naked hands out in front of her, balled into fists. Her powers, Scott acknowledged gravely, and she wasn't afraid to use them.

Scott said, "Now hold on there, miss." He saw her tense and raced to finish. "Logan—now, he's alive."

Surprise lit her face like a gaslight and he knew she was running this news through her head. Her breathing became erratic, and those fearsome eyes suddenly blinked back tears. "Lawd." She shook her head. "No. It cain't be."

"He wrote to Ororo Munroe, who in turn notified us to look out for you. Said you'd be heading North for Xavier…"

From the depths of her throat: "…That ain't raht..."

"…Once you passed into Philadelphia, it was only a matter of time before Xavier could map out your whereabouts. I'm sorry it took so long to do so."

Tears shot down her face, but she did not look away. Scott saw her eyes go wide and full, her dam of denial cracked and splitting from the pressure of this latest revelation.

"Alive…" she whispered quietly, as if to herself. "But mah powers…Ah kilt him." She suddenly turned on him, imploring, trying to understand what this could possibly mean. "Ah was lynched for it."

Scott shook his head, feeling the release of her fury as it dissolved into confusion. "Suppose you aren't much of a murderer after all, miss," he figured, shrugging his shoulders.

**...**

Rogue couldn't believe how much a stranger could know about a person. It bothered her, how she knew nothing about him in return. Yet here he was, standing at attention, hiding behind a pair of bifocals, talking like he had known about her all along. But he was considerate of her silence, waiting patiently to have her speak, cautious not to cross that delicate line that would send her reeling away. He was much too careful to be so hasty.

"Balderdash," she decided, staring up at him in disbelief. "How in hell do yah expect me tah believe that? Yah got no proof." He did not seem ready to explain himself, and Rogue was not in the mood to humor him.

The man's face did not change. He had nothing more to offer. "Miss…" He trailed off, the weight of urgency hanging heavy in the air. "There's been a scuffle downstairs; I'm afraid Paul's been shot dead." He paused, as if to gauge her reaction. "I believe there will be others coming, all bent on finding you. I can't demand your trust, but it would be in your best interest..."

"Ah hear what yah're sayin'," she said, sounding strangled, "but mah friend…Ah came with him."

Scott did not move—not right away, but his mouth twitched and she realized he was frowning.

"Remy LeBeau; he was friends with Paul," she continued when the man did not reply. "He took me here an' Ah don't know where he's gone."

It was an effort for Scott to finally speak. "Remy LeBeau," he repeated, almost choking on the familiarity of the name.

"That's right," Rogue replied, amazed. "Yah know him?"

He turned his head, suddenly affronted. "I was friends with Paul long before Remy even knew him," Scott said testily.

Rogue went quiet at his direct tone, aware that she had hit a nerve.

Scott must have noticed her silence for his mouth quickly slackened, but the tension in his voice remained. "We worked together a long time ago." And with that, Rogue realized that for all the friends they had met along the way, here was an old enemy who had the grit to ask her to trust him. "I take it he's never mentioned me?"

Rogue's blank stare answered that for him. "Huh." His smile turned cruel and he briefly looked away. "Damn devil," Rogue heard him say.

"All raht." Rogue rose, slipping her gloves back on her hands. There would be time to discuss this further later. "Ah'll go with yah. But we find Remy first or Ah don't go at all."

Scott took a step back, regarding her in his own contemplative silence. But before she could fully register his hesitation, the man suddenly gave a short bow, gesturing towards the door.

"After you," he offered, quite the gentleman.

* * *

**8. Beggar **

**New York, 1869**

Scott Summers retreated against a wall and sat down to beg. He had on a new bandage wound tight over his eyes—a last effort to conceal how dangerous he could be. The bandage was a necessary evil, having peeked before with drastic results. Cross the line, dare to open his eyes, and he instantly turned into a living weapon.

Scott no longer begged for money but food, and today he was starving. Third day on the road—though he hadn't thought it would be so hard, having nowhere to go, nothing to see, nothing to do except leave. He had left it all behind for a girl who didn't need him, didn't want him, and today he was wondering if it was worth all this trouble to begin with.

_How much longer do I have to live?_ Not knowing was part of his limbo. Waiting to die—now that was hard to do.

He felt a shadow fall over him and immediately brought out his hand. There was something awful about asking for something he himself could not earn. Nothing breaks a man's spirit like taking away his sight or begging for food. And here he was, burdened with both.

"Scott Summers, I presume." The voice was hard, confident and calm, of magisterial quality. "Or at least, that's what the file from Annadale Orphanage reads."

Scott shook his head. He did not recognize the voice addressing him at the moment. "I ran away from there awhile ago."

But the man continued: "Society's forgotten son. Wealthy beyond your means. A production of Annadale-on-Hudson's finest. But that all went away the day your parents died."

After a short pause: "They said I went blind."

"Well, dear boy, _they_ lied. What they needed was to see your capabilities."

"What was that?" He was deprived, and the stranger was trying to tell him he was _gifted_? Pure, profound bullshit.

"Powers, boy; powers that could only belong to a mutant." Such an ugly word, worse than losing his sight, and Scott felt a tinge of anger, a reflex of hurt pride. "But that will all change, Summers, it will. I have heard your prayers. How would you like to see again?"

"Impossible," Scott almost laughed. "These bandages are the only things keeping me out of prison."

"Another lie," the man dismissed. "Work for me, Summers, and you will see again. The world will pay for abandoning you. You deserve to be treated better."

Scott shrugged, though the man had a point. Not all men were created equal, and boy, did he know it.

* * *

**9. Greenstick**

**Magneto Ranch, Texas, 1870**

"You know what this is?" Victor Creed's anger snarled his voice, causing Remy to flick his devil eyes at him while feigning curiosity. "Sabotage. Greenstick's a ploy to take over my job. Fucking asshole."

Remy tried not to smirk, having heard this mantra before. "So the Old Boss has a new lackey on his hands. What's it t' y'?"

Creed growled, his eyes burning holes into the table as he killed his Jack. "You know, back in the day, Logan and I used to hunt for mutants ourselves. Ruled the plains with an iron fist. They came begging to join us." He sat back, absently admiring the glory days, the thrill of a new scent. "We had a gift, how we'd snuff them out. Violence _provoked_ their powers, you understand. They couldn't hide from us." It was true, to an extent, how these Trackers could simply smell a mutant a county away, how they used violence to coax these mutants' powers out. Helpless and afraid, the mutants would have nowhere to go, and they would then turn to the ones who had exploited their powers in the first place.

Remy himself did not believe in Creed's violent, harsh methods and always made it a point to tell him so. "_Oui_, but what good did it do? All y' Brotherhood Gang absquatulated. The Legend too." Such a story had arisen between the two men rendering Logan legendary, but more for amusement than reverence. Sabretooth always said that if he ever saw the guy again, hell would seem sweet compared to what he was willing to do to the deserter.

Creed was in a sore mood, meaning he had no intention of holding anything back. "All this secretive, nice-guy bullshit you pull, how's that supposed to get results?"

Remy flicked him a hard gaze. Yes, Sabretooth was spiteful after a bottle of old man whiskey, but turning on his only friend was not a wise thing to do. "It's a thing called 'trust,' _homme_. You should try it sometime." He looked away, fighting hard not to get dragged into a drunken brawl with a guy twice his size. "'Sides, Old Boss stopped having y' track 'cause all y' do is beat dem t' a bloody pulp. Y' know dat's why Logan left. Couldn't stand it 'til he finally snapped."

Sabretooth snarled, remembering. "Fucking Logan," was all he said, squeezing the whiskey glass until it had no choice but to shatter in his hand.

The door suddenly swung open, and there appeared Old Boss Magneto with Greenstick, his newest recruit. Tall, toned, all-around normal except for the pair of scarlet bifocals on his face, the new guy was all business, nodding their way, acknowledging their presence. Remy blinked twice, not jealous—only amused that Sabretooth was throwing him glares, as if to say: _This is what I'm talking about, the little shit._

"Gentlemen," Old Boss said in his usual, critical monotone, "this is Scott Summers. He'll be working on the New York case with you. I'm sure you'll welcome him, as he will be a fine addition to this team."

**…**

As if emboldened by Magneto's faith in him, Scott Summers walked around and took a seat at their table while the Old Boss disappeared behind the closed door. Scott tried not to act nervous, but the bloodlust on the corner man's face was as plain as day. And the other one—Scott did not like how they had red eyes in common.

"Remy LeBeau," Red-Eyes introduced himself, friendly. "I go by Gambit. We'll be working together, y' an' me, on dis job." He nodded at Sabretooth, whose hand was bloodied with broken glass all over the table, the whiskey on his breath warning them to stay far. "That's Creed. He's shy. He don' care f' strangers who look better den 'im."

"That always the case when he drinks?" Scott asked, automatically realizing it was the wrong thing to say. Sabretooth went for him and Scott flew back, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to defend himself. Remy grabbed Creed and pushed him away, straining with all he had, a regular David against Goliath.

Sabretooth jabbed a finger in Scott's face, threatening. "You listen here. You talk to me again, I'll separate your head from the rest of you. Got it?" He turned to Remy who was holding him back, suddenly beseeching. "I could have done this myself, damn it. Man alive, if the Old Boss weren't looking for fresh blood, I would have gotten the job."

Scott opened his mouth, but Remy stepped in before he could say a word, obviously more familiar with talking the giant down.

"Hell," Red-Eyes said, easing between the two men effortlessly, "y' an' me, we sittin' ducks in dis shit hole together, Creed. Old Boss won't even let _me_ near her. Much as I hate t' admit it, we need 'im." Sabretooth tore out of Remy's hold, gnashing, giving Summers an eyeful of his long, violent grin.

"Fuck you," he spat, holding ground. Summers straightened his bifocals, looking shaken but not concerned.

Remy said, "Let's settle this with some poker." He motioned to Scott with a nod of his head. "Y' know how to play?" Remy gestured at the deck of cards in his hand.

Scott stared at it hard, his head ringing, heart pounding, wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out of there. "Yes," he managed to say.

And the tension of the room broke, just like that, as they all took their seats around the table again.

Remy smirked, at ease. "Sabretooth, he's old-fashioned. Likes t' hit 'em where it hurts." Remy faked a roundhouse punch as Scott automatically tried to block it. "_Dieu_, y' wound up so tight, swear y' were being hanged at a necktie sociable." Remy laughed, shaking his head, all in good humor. "Damn it all, y' too straight t' start crooked."

Scott shook his comments off. No use in fighting if there were no chance he could win. "Tell me how the job's done," Scott insisted. "Your way."

Remy nodded, listening, the deck of cards sliding from one palm to the other. Scott knew; here was the dealer who understood this game best. "Dese mutants, dey vulnerable, see? Dey like y' t' take deirhand, t' walk dem across de street. Dey like comfort; dey want friends. _We_ de friends an' once dey comfortable, we ease 'em t' our side." He dealt quickly, his fingers working fast and efficient, like a professor on the piano—a natural at his art. "But _homme_, y' gotta be de right one. Cain't juss be some no-name, foreman from Texas—" Remy gestured at Sabretooth, who only grunted in response—"or a low-down, good-looking, good-for-nothing scoundrel outta de Bayous." He winked, dealing out the cards. "No, it's gotta be y', 'cause y' know dis territory. 'S like stalkin' a clubhouse—no access, if y' ain't a part o' de gang."

"I was thrown out though, as a mutant and no family," Scott said blandly. Old, restless anger churned deep and slow, hollowing him out. Vaguely, he realized Magneto had done exactly that: offered to take Scott for a walk, and now he was more than willing to go along for the ride. Magneto had offered the pair of scarlet bifocals; it was easy as pie, Scott trading his life for the gift of sight. Imagine that.

"But y' know what it's _like_ in dat society, an' dat's all dat matters, _non_? Y' come back with a spiffy hat an' shined shoes, it's like y' never left at all. Like Abe Lincoln comin' back f' another term; de country would go _nuts_. Ain't dat right, Creed?"

Sabretooth shook his head. "Never was a fan," he said.

Scott took his hand, frowning at his odds at winning with such losing cards. "This mutant. She's part of the elite?"

Remy nodded, smirking. "An' so are y', f' now on. 'Cause de more she trusts y', de more inclined she'll be t' join us, _non_?"

* * *

**10. The Mansion**

**Annadale-on-Hudson, New York, 1870 **

Remy was running across rooftops, jumping through chimney smoke and dodging the moonlight while Scott trudged along, learning how to be agile. It was a skill, a homegrown strength of those who lived a life of thievery and survived, the stuff of stories he feared becoming. Someone so amoral never moved faster. Gambit was like the devil himself, doing things so swift and quick that he could only belong to evil. The suit Remy had specifically stole for Scott was a tad tight, and the faster he went, the more it hampered his flight.

So, he was more than a little relieved when Remy finally paused, pressing his face against the gate, straining to see inside.

Close up, Scott realized the thief was smirking. "Glad y' decided t' join me," he teased.

Scott tried not to grimace as he caught his breath, obviously winded. "Whom did Magneto say we needed to pay a visit?"

"Y'll know it when y' see her." Remy was already picking the lock. It was a cozy estate from what Scott could tell, tucked behind a pocket of trees away from the city. "What do y' say, Greenstick? Wanna meet de _femme_ of _y'_ dreams?"

Scott smirked at the thought of it. "Seems too good to be true."

Remy heard a note of remorse in his voice and raised an eyebrow. "Den ain't y' glad y' look de part, prince charmin'?"

"That would explain the fancy duds."

"_Oui_, but let's not forget who had to steal them fancy clothes for de both of us." The lock suddenly gave and Remy pushed the gate with one easy swing. "After y'," he offered, still mocking, as Scott went inside. Suddenly, the gate slammed shut between the two of them and Scott whirled around in alarm. But Remy stood nonchalantly on the other side of it, grinning.

"What the—" Scott put his hands on the gate but Remy shook his head. Annoyance melted into panic the moment Scott saw the thief replace the lock and take a step away from the gate.

"_Non, homme_. We go in separately; gotta keep it a loose association." He smiled disarmingly which did nothing to reassure Scott. "Dis is de easy part."

"But what do I say?" Scott shook the gate, wild now, knowing he was being abandoned. "No, Gambit, I'll ruin the whole thing."

Remy only smiled harder, thoroughly enjoying his agony. "_Merde_, y' better get inside. Y' be late. Juss don't think; y' thoughts will give y' away. It's all about _action_. Play de part. Now _go_." His smile caught the moonlight and Scott almost reached for the thief, wanting to smother him into the gate, but then he heard voices and instinctively looked in their direction. When he glanced back, Remy was well out of sight. Scott swore under his breath. No choice; he had to go. He quickly tightened his bowtie and smoothed the lapel of his coat, feeling awkward and stiff in pilfered clothing.

Scott Summers no longer belonged to this world and had no ambition to forage the wealthy. He tailed the rear of a large party, keeping his face averted, striding under the large awning and hurried past the greeters at the front door.

He had made it clear across the foyer when something struck the back of his leg, causing him to trip. But Scott quickly regained his footing and cast a look over his shoulder to see what had almost caused his fall.

A man in a wheelchair was carting by, pausing only to smile apologetically in Scott's direction. Nothing extraordinary worth noting, though Scott thought it rather strange of the man, to be crippled and delighted, eyes knowing and shining, his head completely bare save for a simple, green bowler hat. Scott watched him disappear into the next room from where he stood, wondering what that was about.

He continued deeper into the mansion, his memory slow to recover, knowing that somehow, he had belonged to this elite society once upon a time. He marveled with a stab of contempt at the sight of the long dinner table, set with porcelain and glass and silver, glittering like expensive fireflies drawn to the candlelight. Several courses would be served, certainly—and if Scott could still pick the salad fork from the dinner one, he could certainly pose as a legitimate dinner guest.

There were people hurrying to gather around the staircase and Scott wandered over to investigate, still not knowing what he was looking for. The crowd suddenly burst into eager applause as Scott found himself swallowed whole by the excitement in the room.

And that was when he saw her, standing with her parents on the stairs, smiling graciously at her guests. Something clicked in his head, and immediately he was backing away from the scene—a girl with her parents, handsome in white—nearly missing the waiter carrying a platter of hors d'oeuvres, before catching his step in the deafening commotion of the room. And then he was off—sprinting down the long corridor where he had first entered—running like a madman being chased by a memory.

* * *

**11. Debutante**

**Annadale-on-Hudson, New York, 1870**

_When I was a child, everybody smiled_

_Nobody knows me at all_

_Very late at night, and in the morning light_

_Nobody knows me at all_

The day she turned eighteen, Jean took a long moment to examine herself in the mirror. She was about to put on the white dancing dress that her mother chose for the occasion, ordered straight from Paris, layered in chiffon and lace that stretched from her shoulders to the floor. Jean had hated it; thought it made her look haggard and old, but the seamstress at the dress shop insisted that it was all the rage with debutantes these days, and her mother readily agreed, having always been a fan of lace.

Jean had shared her room with her older sister Sara who had been so healthy just that past summer, but was now confined to her own quarters upstairs, having been deemed too weak by the family doctor to join the festivities that evening.

Her family did not want others to know about Sara's illness, and Jean was consistently mum on the subject. It embarrassed her, knowing that the neighbors did not visit for fear of becoming ill themselves. Her parents had insisted on this celebration to honor her eighteenth birthday, however. But Jean knew this gathering was not for her. It was to prove the Greys were still wealthy, fine figures of society. Jean knew this, and thought it drab to be involved in the lot of it.

Before Sara became ill, Jean was thought to marry well. But now, a deep-seated fear had developed in the family. She knew her parents worried that no one would want Jean; after all, Sara was so sick these days and everyone was afraid of it.

But Jean had a secret, too childish to share. She almost had a lover, from the day he met her down by the Grocer's. She was trying to buy something trivial—tobacco for her father, opiates for her sister—when this gorgeous shop boy behind the counter appeared, a box of seasonal fruit in tow. They had exchanged notes in secret; were young enough to believe their love had meaning. He vowed to marry her someday, and Jean had liked that, the idea of being somebody's wife. She always signed her notes "Mrs. Duncan Matthews" in those days.

Duncan had loved her for years. But her mother forbade it: _think of your sister_, she had said. _Your responsibility as a lady; he's a shop boy, for goodness sake._ So Jean put an end to such foolishness and took another route to another grocery store down the street. After awhile, his letters stopped altogether, and lonely normalcy resumed its quiet routine in her life.

He had finally started dating a girl from upstate New York—a way of moving on—and he did so without telling Jean. And that was life, wasn't it? Life charged forward. A man like that could not wait forever. Jean felt frozen, alone in a familiar place. She might have asked him to be her date to the cotillion, but it was not proper for a lady to show affection towards her suitor, and besides, he was courting someone else now and she decided it would be tactless to intervene, to make friends when there was another girl involved.

She thought about those letters, signing his name as hers, knowing she might have loved him if allowed. They would have dated, courted, sparked like a full-fledged couple, brazen with love. Probably, he was a wonderful kisser, but a lousy lover, and maybe she would have hated him in the end, but she might have liked to find that out for herself. And now, she realized miserably, allowing herself to be tied into a dress she hated, she was eighteen and allowed to love, and no one was waiting.

There will be others, her mother had told her, at which Jean only nodded, trying to believe it. But it was cruel to think she could possibly _want_ anyone else. There was only one incident before that she had risked everything for a bit of fun with a boy, and that ended just as badly.

How bland, that a daughter could actually have feelings too. It had made her bitter, spiteful, and she would have liked to talk back for once, to yell in her mother's face for ruining what could have been. But that was all very un-Christian, of course. Jean wiped away the tears before they could run down her face, frustrated with herself. It was tiring at times—to feel guilty for sins she did not have a chance to commit.

Jean quickly pulled on her satin white gloves and looped a string of pearls around the hollow of her neck in front of the mirror. She was not entirely unhappy—especially not tonight, when her feelings would not matter in light of this momentous occasion. Her smile could use some practice, though; guests she never met would be here any minute now. How droll, she realized, that Sara was dying, how Duncan had left town for another girl, and yet Jean was standing before her full-length mirror, worrying about her smile.

She blew out her candle and headed downstairs, the debutante of her own party.

* * *

**12. Boy Meets Girl**

**Annadale-on-Hudson, New York, 1870**

_And it starts, sometime around midnight_

_Or at least that's when you lose yourself for a minute or two_

_As you stand, under the bar lights_

_And the band plays some song about forgetting yourself for awhile_

_And the piano plays this melancholy soundtrack to her smile_

_And that white dress she's wearing, you haven't seen her for awhile…_

Remy liked his place on this barstool; it made him feel apart from the rest of the place, assuming he had a right to be there at all. There were perks to crashing a party—the free alcohol, the wondering stares of the ladies—all for being at the right place at the right time. The bartender was older, but he talked like they had been friends for awhile. That, and a fifty-dollar tip didn't hurt much either.

"Another sour, sir?" Ah, the patronage of a man who could turn a blind eye to the likes of a mutant. Remy could get used to this.

The thief gave a nod and leaned over the counter in anticipation of his next glass. "Ten minutes, an' y' know me so well, Albert."

"Gambit." _Putain_. Remy closed his eyes, exasperated. Just once, he would have liked to enjoy the evening without interruption. He half-turned to the sound of Scott's heavy tone, feigning surprise as he doused his contempt with the rest of his whiskey.

"_Homme_?" Recognition left a sour note in Remy's voice. "What part of 'loose association' don't y' get?"

Greenstick exhaled sharply, casting a quick look over his shoulder. "The girl, Jean Grey?" He shook his head, insistent. "Hell, I _know_ her."

"How 'bout dat." Remy grinned vaguely; the want of a cigarette was like a finger, prodding him urgent and quick. "Let's juss hope she don't remember y'."

"No, _no_. You don't understand. Her _family_ knows me." Scott's mouth locked into an obstinate frown. "I can't convince her to join us. I didn't even _know_ she was a mutant."

Remy turned back to the bartender who had just prepared him another drink. "Save dis f' me," he said, and with that, proceeded to drag Scott out into the hallway, leading him around the corner, furiously fighting the urge to shove the guy through a window. "What's dis now? Y' runnin' scared on me, _homme_?" Remy kept a good distance between them, lest he decide to really mess him up. "What about believin' in de job? We're 'ere f' business, _homme_. Magneto wants y' t' do it."

But Scott held back, openly refusing to care. There was a stubbornness about him that pushed Remy to a point, frustrating him worse than the nagging need to knock him to the floor.

Something was happening behind those red bifocals; Remy couldn't understand why Summers was resisting orders for the first time since he had joined Magneto. It had been cake, training him—that is, until he turned coward when they were in the middle of a mission. Shoot a pistol? Sure. Run from the law? No problem. Talk to this girl? No can do, mister.

Slowly now, Remy took him by the shoulder, approaching him from a different angle—as a friend. A confidante. Well, it didn't hurt to try.

"_Mais oui_. Let's not. Too soon den?" Relief set into Scott's face just like the thief knew it would. "How's 'bout y' tell me about it, eh, Summers?" Remy's grip was good and strong, steering the lackey back towards the bar.

**...**

A few drinks later, Scott was a chatty piece of work. Remy drank his whiskey dry, half-listening to Summers, half-watching the blonde smiling at him from across the way. He was grateful Scott was not a violent drunk—though he was a bit too colorful under the influence and therefore drew unwanted attention from all sides of the bar.

"What is this drink called?" Scott asked for a twelfth time that night.

"A Virginia fancy," Remy said for the twelfth time that night, waving at the blonde who in turn waved back. "An' I'm cuttin' y' off. Man alive, y' so goddamn _loud_."

"Well, it was your idea." He gave a slurry nod at no one in particular. "But hey, I feel so much better."

"_Ga lee_. Ain't dat swell." A vision of white caught his eye and Remy reached for Scott's arm. "_Merde_, dere she is." The redhead had finally made an appearance. Her intentions were written across her face; she meant to see who was making a ruckus at the bar. Remy nudged Scott with his elbow. "Think y' can talk t' her now?"

Scott turned his head and suddenly became serious. He continued to stare, but no one could truly say for sure since his scarlet bifocals hid his eyes completely. Scott might have been the perfect poker player if not for his expressive mouth. At the moment, his lips were pressed together, worried. "She's really, very pretty."

Remy heard the tender ache in his voice and decided to ignore it. The man was drunk, and it was difficult not to take advantage of that.

But for once, he couldn't have agreed more with Scott. Hair the truest shade of red, a tone made bold against her fair skin, the Grey girl was dressed in a cotillion dress, as white as her hair was ruby with its criminally frilly petticoat and a conservative lapse of lace draped across her shoulders. She wore no make-up, but her eyes—a brilliant flash of green—flicked from Remy to Scott, and at the last moment, settled upon Remy, glinting with amusement. He grinned at the girl, thoroughly enjoying her attention.

"_Reinette_," he said in his sweet, subversive way. "Happy birthday."

Scott swiveled around to face him—gawking, Remy liked to think—but Jean was the first to retort.

"Mr. LeBeau, I don't remember inviting you, or your friend here." Obviously, she did not immediately remember Scott, whose mouth was drawn in a small, offended _o_.

"Didn't think y'd mind. Says he knows y'."

Jean looked at Scott who was smiling at her absently. "He's drunk, Remy." Her tone was plaintive, polite and Remy imagined her squirming, trying not to think if she knew the man in question while taking comfort in stating the obvious.

"He's no better sober," Remy deadpanned, meaning it.

"Well, he can't stay here. _You_ can't stay here." She looked at Remy, trying not to laugh. "How did you get in anyway?"

"De same way I always do."

Her smile was infectious. "Hallway window, down the left?"

"De very one."

Jean grinned; she always liked to think she knew Remy better than most. "And you chose the bar to meet up? Not very furtive of you."

"_Mon ami_ needed a drink. Say hi, Summers." As if jolted by lightening, Scott jerked around and almost spilled his fancy.

"Hi," he croaked softly, as if the word were a sin he were reluctant to commit.

"_Desole, Reinette. Mon ami_ needs practice talkin' t' de ladies."

Jean scrunched up her eyes and peered into Scott's face, trying to see beyond his bifocals. "Why, I _know_ you," she whispered, her eyes growing wide

"There it is," Remy said cheerfully, taking in a mouthful of Jack.

"Scott?" She was gazing at him intently now, her eyes full and searching. "You can _see_?"

What a curious thing to say; after all, Scott was facing her, keenly noting the rising tone in her voice. Scott nodded, his mouth betraying his feelings as it broke into a small, hopeful smile.

"You're still a redhead," he told her, awestruck, causing Remy to choke as the whiskey drained down the wrong pipe. He couldn't believe the guy, but Jean stared at Summers as if she were absolutely flattered.

"You remember that? I guess I didn't have the heart to change it after all." Remy was suddenly forgotten as they looked at each other from either side of him. "I just…I haven't seen you in such a long time. There was much speculation about where you had ended up, of course. Father…he believed you dead. You know he always thought the world of you. He'll be so happy to see you again…"

This turning into a family affair was more than enough for Remy to handle in one night. Now, more than ever, seemed like a good time to get going. "Well, dis has been such a fine e'enin'," Remy interjected suddenly, pulling Scott from his barstool to his feet. "But we really don't have de time t' stay. _Mon ami_, say good-bye. T'ank de nice lady f' de liquor."

"But—"

"Really now, Remy," Jean said, looking annoyed and keeping her green eyes low on Scott, "he's a friend."

"_Oui_, a _drunken_ friend. Temperance is not de high point of de e'enin'. Y' God-fearing father wouldn' like it," Remy added with a touch of disdain, knowing she could not argue.

Jean turned to Scott, and Remy could see she was smiling. "Then you should come back. Come back and visit when you're both sober." She regarded Scott happily, as if he were something she had misplaced, and in some stroke of good fortune, was finally being returned to her. "I just can't believe you've returned, after all this time."

**…**

"'Still a redhead?' _Dieu_. Who in hell says dat?" Remy was dragging Scott behind him, shaking his head, trying hard not to be seen as they both headed for the exit.

Scott was oblivious to Remy's scorn, drunk on something entirely different. "She hasn't changed. She hasn't changed a bit." He paused, trying to follow Remy who was bent on leaving the party behind. "Hey, you told me you've never met her before." His smile went wide, suddenly conspiratorial. "Magneto doesn't know that, does he?"

The cold evening air hit Remy like a wave of relief. He looked from Scott to the mansion and shrugged, but did not slow down. "What can I say; pretty _femmes_, it's a weakness of mine."

But Scott did not care to agree. "Shit. Oh, shit. She remembers me." The alcohol was finally leaving his system, and the crash hit harder than expected—Scott was wheeling with her memory, exuberant and despairing all at once.

Remy decided to keep a good distance away in case Scott decided to hurl. "Careful now; try not t' make a mess, Summers," he said over his shoulder.

Scott careened, tripping out of the gate. "You think she was serious, then? Asking us over?"

"_Dieu_!" Remy laughed. He was enjoying Scott making a spectacle of himself, but hated it too. "Y' barely met de _femme_. Dis is sad, _homme_. Real sad." He tried not to sound bitter, but it was like a disease, eating at him slowly, defiantly. "'Sides," he added, slackening his stride a tad, "Remember what we're 'ere f'. Remember de…"

"Remember the job," Scott finished blandly, the reminder sending him reeling back down to earth. "Right. I know."

Remy did not hear much from him the rest of the way back. But he saw things he wished he couldn't—the love blooming on Greenstick's face was enough to make a man sick. Funny how things were, that Remy should know exactly what Scott felt for the same girl; that this should be the beginnings of a battle he knew he could not win.

* * *

**13. Rendezvous**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

The rain had stopped for the afternoon, and Rogue was thankful for it.

Scott stayed close to her although he might have been able to cover twice the distance if he had gone ahead by himself. Once, Rogue had tripped on a root jutting a few inches off the ground, but Scott was quick and caught her arm, righting her and asking if she were hurt. "Ankle not twisted?" Such an honest, simple question—and Rogue immediately took it the wrong way.

The girl whipped her arm away from him, automatically embarrassed that he had to help her. It amazed her, too, that he should not be afraid to touch her, that he had asked his question with such genuine concern that confused her. Remy, she knew, would have joked about it, might have told her to walk it off and she would have responded angrily—the two of them fighting over stupid, little things.

But this man who was raised differently and thought different things treated her differently altogether. Rogue did not know exactly how to react when he crouched down before her, meaning to examine her ankle himself.

So she said, "No," rather despondently, and though she noticed Scott's lips work into a troubled frown, they carried on in silence, racing deeper into the woods, Rogue minding to maintain a wide berth from him.

They were following wagon tracks which were outlined in fresh mud, made dense by the recent rainfalls. Rogue occasionally looked to the skies, searching, and thought to ask Scott, quite demurely, "Do yah think we might find him by evenin'?"

Scott paused. He had seen her staring upwards and now raised his head to see what she noticed. The skies were darkening with rain clouds overhead, and Scott realized why she worried. "I suppose it won't be likely," he told her truthfully.

"Do yah think those wheel tracks could really lead us tah Remy?" A dose of doubt might have roused Remy to laugh at her, but Scott responded earnestly and affirmatively.

"There are many reasons why I've chosen this route," he began before launching into a fairly intricate and extensive explanation of reasoning and logic which Rogue, after a long while into it, chose not to hear.

His explanation carried them as far as a clearing, where the wagon was found as bodies lay sprawled on the ground, freshly deceased—shot through with their weapons, it seemed. Newly fallen trees littered the ground around their feet; an explosion might have caused their fall.

Almost immediately, Scott began looking over the bodies. Rogue held her breath as she too examined the dead, dreading to recognize them, and it was only when Scott turned over the last stranger did Rogue finally allow herself to relax.

"Not here," she heard him murmur thoughtfully, glancing over the scene with obvious unease.

"Do yah think we've followed the wrong trail?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. The rain had started up again and she held her gloved hands over her head, absently wishing for a bonnet at the moment. She watched as Scott suddenly dropped to the ground, reaching for something nearby.

"No, LeBeau was here all right." Rogue came over to Scott as he held up a playing card, badly singed. She could barely make out the tiny heart cramped in its corner. "But it seems he's had help," Scott said, indicating the bullet hole in a dead man's head. "Five against one? Impossible draw, you would think."

An awful pinch of dread crept up into Rogue's chest as she watched Scott pocket the playing card; in that instant, she realized she wanted it.

"Mr. Summers," she addressed the man formally, purposefully drawing towards him. "Would it be all raht if Ah hold on tah it?" Something hardened in Scott's face, so Rogue tried to explain: "If it's the only thin' left of Remy…Ah'd lahke tah have it, please."

For a second, Rogue almost thought Scott would refuse her request. But then he relented, digging into his pocket and handing her the remains of the card without saying a word. He then moved away by himself, and it was only later did Rogue realize he did so respectfully. Even then, Scott had recognized how much Remy meant to her.

At any rate, Rogue did not know if they would find him now. Not when the chances were stacked up against them. But when Scott asked if they should continue on, Rogue hadn't a doubt, deliberately touching the card inside her cloak, keeping it close in case it were the last thing she would ever know of the thief.

* * *

**14. Saved**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

Nothing like a good rain to set a mind straight.

The thunder—such anger in the skies. The sky broke and came down like cannon projectiles, heavy and hard on their heads.

Rainwater ran off his shoulders as the wagon rolled to a stop. Remy was keenly aware that they would abandon the wagon soon and draw their guns and proceed to fill him with lead, only to let him live so that he might die slow and alone. It might have been fine, all right, a take-it-or-leave-it affair, but then he was reluctant to die, knowing it meant leaving Rogue by herself, this New York trip turning out to be a waste of time. He tugged his bound hands and forced these thoughts away, knowing he could not think straight if he were caught up with worrying.

The rain carried on as they dragged Remy from the wagon, intending to tie him to the trees. It was only mid-way that things began to go wrong, when the one nearest Remy suddenly froze, dropping the rope before he could get it around the tree.

"I cain't move!" he screamed; sure enough, his arms were clamped down at his sides, a look of terror creeping into his face. The others backed away as his gun whipped out from its holster and pointed it dead at his head. One warning shot just missed the man's face, grazing his cheek, making the man scream out in horror.

"_Putain_! There's another mutant 'ere!" someone yelled, just as the gun went off again and the assassin fell dead at their feet.

Remy saw them panic and struggled to get his hands free. The others had drawn their guns but aimed blindly, unsure of what to shoot. The rain pelted them relentlessly, darkening the skies and creating a heavy mist. Seeing his chance, Remy dove behind the nearest tree, tearing at the rope around his wrists, needing to get free and find the playing cards in his pockets.

Bullets flew and three others went down, struck by friendly fire. Such a perfect escape, Remy realized, as the ropes suddenly unlaced themselves, though he could have sworn the knots had been tied tighter. And that was when he looked up and found he was being watched.

Remy got to his feet, gazing at the girl standing a few feet from him, her thick red hair coming undone from beneath her bonnet. She regarded him with a smile, one that might have impressed him in a different place and time.

"_Merde, Reinette. _Might've told me y' were in town."He tried not to think it, how she was still the prettiest girl in the world, although now she had a ring on her finger and he wasn't the one who had asked the question.

Her tight, red-lipped smile claimed his gaze as he felt a force move him forward and closer to her. "Remy," she beckoned gently. "Let's get you out of the rain." And that was when the thief noticed the last assassin appear behind her, aiming his pistol at her head.

Remy yelled, "Jean!" just as the weapon went off behind her. The bullet veered right, ricocheting off a tree trunk, narrowly missing the girl who set off in the opposite direction. Remy found the playing card in his right front pocket and sent it flying with a practiced flick of the wrist. Watching for a split-second as it sailed through the air, gaining momentum, Remy sprinted away, its explosion racing after him, taking several trees down in its wake.

He was suddenly swept clear from the debris and floated through the rain as if carried by the wind; Remy LeBeau saved yet again by the telepath. She was somewhere out there in those woods, waiting patiently for him to join her soon. And he was dreading every second of it.

* * *

**End Notes: **

Necktie Sociable: A Public Hanging

_Nobody Knows Me At All _The Weepies

_Sometime Around Midnight_ The Airborne Toxic Event

Oh, it feels so good to get that off my computer hard drive. And hey, you made it to the end: treat yourself to a Virginia Fancy! For all who reviewed last chapter, expect a response in your inbox! I actually received this a few days back from my beta but have been at work (the commute on eight-hour days sucks) and therefore could not get right to it like I usually do. And now that Jean and Scott are in the picture, I hope I haven't turned off anyone because I am planning to reveal a few holes in my story line, especially the whole point of tracking mutants and why Remy failed to recruit Jean. It's going to be sad and lovely and fun (as fun as I can make it anyway). Cross your fingers and hope for the best!

**Response to Review:**

**masie**: Thanks for the encouragement! It's always a pleasure writing for those who appreciate it, and thank you for letting me know you like it so. I promise to finish it AND keep it up. And I always keep a promise ;D

Next Up: Scott and Jean have history and chemistry, Remy creates tension, and Rogue (dear Rogue) hasn't the tiniest clue what's been going on. Stay tuned...


	19. Nineteen

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Ack! Ok, I think we all agree that I do not have the best updating track record, but if you are reading this, I admire your patience and curiosity in keeping up with this story of mine! One of my New Year Resolutions involves updating quicker. So...Onward ho!

* * *

**15. Visitation**

**Greys' Residence, Annadale-on-Hudson, 1870**

He called upon her at a quarter to three the next day.

When they were children, when time seemed suspended and life could go on forever, Jean had known Scott as a boy with chestnut hair and light blue eyes who was both spiteful and daring; a boy who took a shine to her so easily that he often chased her around the lawn, yelling her name, reaching for her hand. Their mothers were members of the same church and would often have each other over for tea on the lawn Sunday afternoons. His parents were alive then, and she was barely eight, in love with the idea of taffy—sweet salt-water taffy directly from Maine, the very meaning of _fantastic_. So very terrific that they all fought to take it all. Alex, that brat of a younger brother, used to hoard it behind the bushes, thinking the older children would not find it. Sara, always the mediator, was forced to break up their fights. So when his parents died in that terrible carriage accident by the Hudson, Scott was whisked away, his inheritance divided, no other guardians to care for him.

Even the orphanage did not want him. Alex was adopted within the year while Scott stayed behind, forced into an almost military routine: double-knotting his shoes, making his bed, chores on Saturdays, lessons and recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. He was an angry child, tearing at things, refusing to be bartered for a family that was not his. He had made a name for himself as a devil, a monster, and she had heard once in passing the master bedroom her parents thoughts of "poor Scott" rendered blind by the same accident that killed his parents. They had not told her this of course—she had heard it accidentally, but did not know what to make of it. She was, after all, only a child, discovering her own powers, but found it curious that they dwelled on recommending him to Professor Charles Xavier. She was often told she was gifted by the professor himself, and she did not think that a devil or a monster could possibly qualify for such a privileged education. Soon, she had forgotten Scott, but when her father came from Maine and brought back the taffy candy, she would vaguely remember the boy with the light blue eyes who turned awful and wondered if he finally ran away, as he no longer ran after her.

Standing with him in her backyard, sharing their childhood again as adults, she refrained from reading his mind.

She did not know if his eyes were still blue. Scott kept a respectful distance between them, and there would be no telling behind those dense, ruby bifocals. She finally decided that he was different: sight had changed him. He was more confident, his head raised a bit higher, his smile easy. Perhaps he looked much like his father, tall and gaunt with a brooding stare and courting smile, but she could not quite remember. He was not so angry now, and it struck her suddenly, this sad truth, how they all had grown up.

He strolled the gardens like a man who had stumbled upon a secret: half-interested, half-cautious, his hands in his pockets, the sunlight hitting him from all directions. She watched him quietly, admiring the man he had become. The years in between might have been lost on her, but somehow, she perceived him better because of them.

"Your mother's azaleas." He half-laughed, pointing at the flowers. "I thought I dug up the last of them, just to spite her."

"Suppose she replanted them just to spite _you_."

He cocked his head to the side and offered his most winning smile. "You were always the good one, Jean. Mother always said you might have ruled if this country wanted a queen."

She was cautious, remembering his history of volatility. "What ever happened to you, Scott? I was told you went blind."

He laughed without humor, his chortle hollow. "I never was blind. I just could not see."

She did not understand.

"You have never wondered why my bifocals are tinted red? Or that they are made with materials that are stronger than glass?" He shook his head. "What else had you heard? They said I was a demon, that I caused my parents' accident—"

"No." He had gone too far just then, looking to blame himself. "That isn't true, and you know it."

"And everyone else?" he demanded.

"What does it matter what they think?" she asked quietly, after a short silence. She had lived in the vise of her family's shame of Sara's illness, and was tired of trying to please those who did not like them anyhow.

She rose from the bench then and took his hands in hers; she found it funny, how he had chased after her hand only to have her take his. "Scott." He turned his head to her, the rage in his face dissolving. "Tell me about it then." He breathed and she took it as a sign that he was settling down.

"I'm a mutant, Jean." He said this without emotion, without hesitation. "I've known for awhile now."

She grimaced, hearing the malice punctuating his words. "Come now," she tried to assure him. "Is it as bad as you believe it to be?"

"Well, why not? I am seen first as mutant. These glasses should never come off. I cannot control my powers without them…"

"You talk as if you are the only mutant alive." But that was not very fair to say, she realized too late. They had lived very different lives—certainly she did not know how it felt to lose her parents and her inheritance or to grow up as an orphan. They sat together, surrounded by the comforts of her life and she felt a pang of shame that his life had turned out so badly when hers did not. "Though it is not as obvious, I also have powers."

He had forgotten himself for a moment. She was a mutant too, after all. What else could he possibly be after? The telepath, her powers. Remember the job, he advised himself weakly.

She misread his silence as confusion. "Aren't you curious as to what they are, Scott?" Her gaze darkened as she studied him, wondering if he already knew. However, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt: "I can read minds. I—" The azaleas dipped to one side by an unseen force, "—am a telepath."

"Perhaps." He carefully lowered the rim of his glasses and—_bam_! A red beam flashed, annihilating the birdhouse standing innocently in the corner of the garden. "But I am the only one with this power." Any other time, she might have been offended, staring at the damaged post where the birdhouse once stood. Instead, she felt sorry for the man, her hand in his, lonely enough to hate what might have been a gift at some point in time. She sat frozen at his side, acutely aware of their differing views on the same subject.

He seemed to realize her silence and decided it best to change the subject. "But what of your parents, Jean? And your sister?"

His questions sent her reeling back to earth. She shook her head, smiling, finally deciding it best to lie. "They are quite well, thank you."

"Everything is always well, is it not, Jean?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "You have not changed much." She laughed.

"Is that so awful?"

"No." He held her hand tighter. "No, I suppose not."

"I cannot tell my parents everything. But to my defense, I don't believe anyone really does." She looked away, a little embarrassed to say so. "I honestly don't think they would understand if I did."

Scott nodded, his mouth drawn contemplatively. Jean did not usually desire to read another's thoughts. She thought it inhuman, almost violating and heinous that she was cursed with that ability. But today, right then and there, she wanted to hear it all, if it had to be him. And then he squeezed her hand and changed her mind.

"Let's be friends again, you and I," he proposed, a certain shyness behind the earnestness in his words. She gazed down, their hands locked. She could not think, for the life of her, why not.

**. . .**

She had invited him to dinner, so Scott returned the next day, dressed in the only suit he owned. The path was familiar by now; he had scorned it the first night he had returned, only to follow it back up those familiar stairs to her front porch, eager yet a bit nervous to see Jean again.

The fireplace was lit; her parents were in the next room, excited for the company. He was well-received, he later decided. No one might have welcomed him back as warmly as the Greys. Her mother, flighty as always, commented on his suit and admired his manner, and her father went to see that he should take his brandy straight. Scott made himself comfortable on their sofa by the fireplace, uncertain of what else to do with himself.

Jean joined him a few minutes later, nodding as she entered the living room. He rose, as was polite, and she grinned, radiating a sort of pleasure with his presence.

"I have never seen mother so excited," she was saying, seating herself a respectable distance from him. "It is as if she's deciding if I should wear lace all over again."

She had swept her hair high behind her head, neck left unadorned, her dress a deep emerald green. He decided that, yes, she really was very pretty indeed. She said, "Scott?" And he looked at her quickly, afraid that she might had heard his thoughts. _You cannot trust these mutants_, Magneto had cautioned him earlier. _But you must make it so that they trust you._

"I was thinking about what you had said yesterday, about being a mutant..."

_Learn what you can about the girl. Her powers, her abilities, anything._

"And I would like to introduce you to my mentor. He would be thrilled to meet another mutant-I mean that with the utmost respect."

"Mentor?"

"Professor Charles Xavier. He was at my party, a few days back."

_She is a faithful pupil to Charles Xavier. That man is purportedly her _mentor_._ How he had gnashed at the word, rendering it almost ridiculous. _And he has taught her many things, but will not teach her to do more, and that is why she is not as powerful as she can be. _

"He is a very good teacher; he helped me control my powers. He advocates for us, you see. He believes that our powers can help this nation. His life's work is dedicated to this cause."

"You mean to _help_ humans." This was the first he had ever heard of it.

"Yes, Scott." She seemed pleased, but that spiraled into something very different.

"But they only see us as dangerous, Jean. We need our powers to protect ourselves."

Her brow furrowed, taken aback. "We are not weapons, Scott. Surely we are not preparing for battle against the human race."

"It is all good to say, in the comfort of this house, in this part of the city where you feel safe. But I have been through Manhattan, and when it burned, I tell you they were hunting mutants just as much as the next gang."

Alarm had surfaced in her face. "Who's told you that? You are convinced of such wickedness?"

He shook his head. "I am not proud to be what I am. And to say that I should use my powers to help those who hate us? I did not ask for this, Jean." He almost admitted then that he was working for Magneto and that this was what he had been taught; most certainly, he did not need a mentor, for Chrissake. But she had become quite agitated upon hearing this.

"Nor did I," she said. And that was when he noticed the portraits on the walls begin to shake, the coffee table trembled, and the vase hovered a few inches from its place beside him. A streak of panic flashed through him; he did not know the extent of her powers. Even she did not notice her own powers at work; yet, it was as if the whole room might collapse. Thinking quickly, he dropped before her, breaking her trance. The objects became still as the vase dropped to the floor and rolled to a stop at the edge of the carpet. His hands reached for hers and found them in her lap.

"I am sorry; I did not mean to offend you," he said, startled by how much he meant it. She caught his gaze and held it, and she did not withdraw her hands from him.

"No; you do not understand. I don't suppose you could, as you are." She smiled then, dropping her eyes. "But I believe there is still good in you, Scott." She stood suddenly, causing Scott to fall away from her. "I should…see if supper is ready." She excused herself, disappearing into the kitchen.

He thought he had shaken her, realizing now how easily he could lose her. Slowly, he rose, righted the vase and replaced it on the counter. Dinner, they later announced, was served.

* * *

**16. Sara**

**Maine Shoreline, 1870**

Remy had watched them from his place inside the carriage that day with what he later decided was resentment. The smell of the ocean, of saltwater and sand, made him uneasy and he opted to stay where he was, spending the afternoon smoking comfortably out-of-range. He watched as Scott, pant legs rolled to his knees, walked barefoot with Jean, her long skirts dragging in the sand. Vaguely, he wondered how Scott could ease her out of that house for an afternoon on the Maine shoreline. Perhaps, she had told her parents a story that would keep her out of the house all day. They never would have let her go if they had known she would be here, alone with a man who was not her husband. Or maybe they would have, knowing it was Scott accompanying her.

She'll have a helluva time taking out all that sand, Remy was thinking, noticing how her arms clutched Scott's, weighing him down at times. They were laughing at something. Maybe The Stick had made a joke. And all that time, Remy noticed how very pretty she really was, and he wondered why she had never held him like that, or laughed, red-lipped and grinning, her vermillion hair whipping in the wind. Not once had she accepted his offer to take her out to town. Not for dancing, not for dinner. And this—this green, know-nothing, bespectacled mutant had swept her off her feet in the instant that they met. Of course, he had intrigue—he could _see_!—and he might lead an army someday, Magneto was hoping. But Remy had also seen how the _homme_ could not handle his liquor, how sorry he got when he disappointed others, how he paled at the thought of seducing a _femme_ to _their_ side…

All this culminated at a point with Remy; it coaxed him, furious for more than a smoke. He jabbed open the latch and spilled out of the carriage, feeling just a bit too claustrophobic on a day so nice, it was a shame not wanting to be outside to enjoy it.

**. . . **

They were sitting out on the sand amidst the cold sea breeze, salt-water taffy between them. Self-consciously, she fingered her hair back behind her ears and smiled when she noticed Scott watching. She had always hated her red hair and remembered complaining to him that if she had her way, she'd dye it blonde like her sister's. She wondered what he thought of her, how crass and petty it all seemed now.

"I have not seen the seaside in years," she said, trying for conversation. He cocked his head in her direction and smiled. "How is it like?" she suddenly asked, her fingers finding the sand. "Now that you can see?"

He averted his head, the glint of his glasses catching the sunlight. "Different. I only see in the color red. But suppose that's better than what it was before."

"Yes, that must have been quite a burden." Her voice faltered; perhaps it were not wise to remind him. "I suppose I'm not exactly what you imagined either."

There was a lengthy pause as Scott considered this. "No," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made her turn away.

"Maybe I believed you were meant for more than this life. I envied you for running away. Eighteen years; Lord, it's already been so long. Mother wanted me married by now."

"Have you someone in mind?" He toyed lightly with the question, but his chest flared with dread that she might already be engaged.

"Duncan Matthews." His mouth drooped with disappointment, and Jean grinned despite herself. "He's upstate now, dating a nice girl that he might marry someday." Her smiled turned secretive, watching his face carefully. "Come now, are you so jealous to think I fancied him?"

He gave her a look that wondered how easily he had given himself away. Jean just laughed, her red hair flying in all directions.

But Scott was serious. "So you will marry."

"Honestly, Scott. I haven't even a suitor." She could tell he did not believe her.

"And Sara?" He inquired after her sister. "Hasn't she married yet?"

Jean did not reply. She might have lied to him, but he had caught her off-guard so suddenly that her good mood weakened considerably.

"What's wrong, Jean? Why can't you tell me?" After all these years, he could still sense when things took a turn for the worse. He looked about the beach; the shoreline practically empty for the day was gloomy and foreboding with rain clouds overhead. She stared down into her lap, desperately in need of a distraction.

Again, he pressed the question: "What is it, Jeannie?" She looked away. No one had called her that in years. She was sure he would leave, like the neighbors, like the lot of them. And it frustrated her that she could not see his eyes, that she could not search his face for some evidence that he was as sincere as he seemed. Still, she ached for him to understand; all she wanted was believe in him.

"Suppose you've heard of consumption?" That wretched word—its ugly implications—wrenched itself from her lips. It was taboo, much like the word "mutant," but this was a real, invisible threat. This, in all certainty, meant death.

Scott went silent and she felt sullied, sharing the same air as him.

"I was not completely honest when you asked about my family." She rose from her place beside him, sand flowing from the creases in her skirts. His thoughts hammered at her mind but she paid them no attention. His face turned to hers, respectful. She had his complete attention.

"Sara's dying. My parents…they're preparing for it, of course. And suppose everyone knows it…but that doesn't make it any easier, does it?"

She never told a soul, but he was different, wasn't he? He had known her sister once. He knew loss, he knew that spiteful, bitter anger swelling inside, dangerously seething. She cried then—there was nothing more to explain—and cried harder when she felt his arms around her, that black, indignant rage finally flooding out before she could stop it. He held on tightly despite the violent shifts and turns of her current, undulated with her sadness, finding air though her waters could sink ships. It surprised her, how he did not drown.

**. . . **

He asked to see her.

Of course, mother was upset. Outraged that Scott should even know that her daughter was dying of consumption, of all things. But he insisted, stating that he meant no malice, felt no fear of the dangers of such a visit. Mother did not relent, but father allowed it. He had always been fond of the boy, after all.

Scott was delirious, nervous as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, but every bone in his body was convinced he should be there. The room smelled strongly of camphor and menthol, a tea set idle by the bedside. The curtains were drawn; candles flickered as he passed. A chair had been placed bedside the bed, and he waited until Jean sat on the mattress before seating himself. There was a body in that bed, and he watched as Jean leaned over, whispering that she had a visitor. Promptly, the face turned to him and he was surprised to find the features familiar.

"Scott Summers." Sara smiled weakly, and he noted how thin she had become, the hollow angles of her face lit grimly in the dim light. "My, it's been ages."

She offered her hand and he took it without hesitation.

"We always wondered what happened…to you…" A violent fit of coughing erupted from her, and she turned away briefly. Scott did not release her hand. "But how is it you've come? They wouldn't let anyone visit."

"I wanted to see you." He smiled, and felt his heart heave in an effort to continue beating. "I've missed everyone, everyone that I've ever known."

Sara gave a tired laugh, nodding as if in agreement. "As do I." She lay back, her eyes averted. "Aren't you afraid of what I've got? What ails me?"

"You can't do much worse than I, rest assured."

Her smile widened. "But you are not a fool, Scott Summers. You know what consumption is, don't you? It eats you from the inside out, the very meaning of the word. The soldiers in the War died from it. You will catch it from you me, you know." She suddenly looked at him, as if to gauge his reaction. "And still you remain, digging your own grave."

Scott gripped her hand. "There are worst things in this world." But he could not truly say for sure.

Sara shook her head, her smile gentle. She had become so old in this bed, aged by the knowledge of her impending death. Scott could not possibly understand. He was reminded suddenly of how short life could be. How cruel and necessary and sad it all seemed, the dying clinging to the living, one last attempt at physical interaction before the inevitable should claim her. "But there are better things." She reached out, touched his face. "You've grown up, Scotty. Your parents would have been proud…"

How long ago it seemed when they had been children during the War years. When they could live forever and life would not change them. There would be no mention of consumption, or his parents' accident, or even his mutant powers. But they were not children now. Tears sparked his eyes. How they had all grown up; God damn it all.

"Are you angry that I've said it?" He did not respond; overwhelmed now, he could not stop his bitterness from spilling down his face. "You need not worry about this, Scott. You have time, more than I ever had," she told him solemnly. "And so does she."

He had forgotten Jean in Sara's presence, taciturn at the foot of the bed, but she was lost in her own thoughts, watching the two talk like old friends. What had they feared all those wasted years as Sara deteriorated? They had sealed her coffin the moment they closed her door and cut off all contact with the world on the assumption that it was in her best interests. Surely, Jean knew better now. Seeing her emaciated hand in his, touching his face, she felt a pang of guilt. What had they done to her?

But Sara had not spoken in anger, no. She was not slight or stern, or even sorry for herself. Instead, Jean noticed how her sister had noticeably come alive with this visitor alone, a man that had disappeared off the face of the world only to resurface in her estate, on her behalf. He was not afraid of Sara. A sudden, growing need cuffed Jean, the weight of this kind gesture turning her mind. If she doubted him before, she was more than convinced of his intentions now. Somehow she knew he would not leave her—what she feared most replaced now by the scarlet tint of his glasses, a color she had always taken for granted.

* * *

**17. Gripe**

**Magneto Ranch, 1870**

Another week went by and people were starting to talk. Scott Summers had returned to Annadale-on-Hudson. Even Sabertooth, who kept a large berth where Scott was concerned, was beginning to notice that their newest addition hardly graced the Ranch these days. Things were getting tense. If Old Boss caught whiff of this…anything could happen, especially where Magneto was concerned. Prodigy or not, Scott was a victim to all of this. And Remy did not like things to get too far without doing something about it first.

If anything, the thief was doing the man a favor. He met Scott halfway down the staircase, just as he paused to check his tie in the mirror.

"Greenstick, I need t' talk t' y'."

Scott did not immediately look away from his reflection. "I haven't the time. I must catch the train and I'm already running late."

"It's…" He didn't know how to put it. "F' starters, y' haven't exactly been deliverin' de information about de telepath. Y' could at least cover y' tracks if y' intend t' play around while on duty. I cain't cover f' y' f'ever, _homme_."

"I haven't found anything useful," he returned, but Remy knew Scott had spent more of his days in Annadale than he ever did on Magneto Ranch, where they all resided at the time.

"Look, I don' mean t' intrude, mon ami, but Magneto, he's not a patient man. He's been waiting for somethin', anythin' of de _femme_. Y' were supposed t' deliver."

"It doesn't work that way," Scott returned shortly. He was carefully dressed in black, a sign that he was heading out again.

"Y' think we blind, _homme_? E'en Creed believes y' courtin' her."

"Well, didn't you say she had to trust me?" His hands fell away from his tie and he frowned in Remy's direction.

"_Oui_, but how long before y' fall in love w' her?" Color seeped into Scott's face and he turned away. "_Ga Lee_, you fool. She was supposed t' fall f' you, not de other way around…"

"Don't talk like you know her, LeBeau."

"I know enough t' know she don't like Magneto." Scott paused, considering this. "She's in cahoots w' Xavier. _De_ Charles Xavier, de telepath an' _our_ enemy. Don't y' see, Greenstick? It's either him or us and thet includes de likes of y'. Don't go messing dis up f' de rest of us," he warned.

"Something tells me this hits a little too close to home for you, Remy. What is it? Did you try to court her yourself?" He had the audacity to smirk. "Not much luck there, I guess."

The thief was shocked—was it that obvious?—but that immediately warped into something hateful. Certainly, _he_ had been truthful. Certainly he had told her that he worked for Magneto, and though she never did come around, at least she knew of his intentions. Remy watched as Scott walked past him, determinedly heading for the door. _Touche, homme,_ he conceded. But Greenstick would regret that. Remy would make sure of it.

* * *

**18. Intentions?**

**Greys' Residence, Annadale-on-Hudson, 1870**

The sister died a few days later, and suddenly it was if a spell had been broken. Everyone flocked to visit, from shock or curiosity, Jean would never know. They came in droves, pushing through the door bearing gifts of food enough to ward off any famine. She made sure to receive them all, accepting their condolences, but it was if she were a spring run dry. It had taken so many years, so long that her grief had been spent and Sara's death came as a kind of relief. Sara did not need to suffer anymore, and that was enough for Jean.

Scott called upon Jean during the viewing, bearing dark red peonies for her family and a salt-water taffy box for her.

"Sara would have loved these," she said, accepting the flowers. She looked up at him, smiling sadly. "I'm so glad you've come." It scared her, how much she meant it. They were alone in the foyer, the visitors gathered in another room, Sara's body prepared for the reception. He offered her his hand and she took it without hesitation. A few strangled sobs could be heard from across the hall and Jean tried not to mind.

"Your parents…?" He asked, concerned. She nodded reassuringly.

"They are doing all right, thank you. Better than I ever imagined, actually. Always loved a good reception."

"And you?" He turned his face to hers inquisitively. She drew in a shaky breath, smiling harder.

"Better, now that you've come." She looked up at him, feeling something small and hopeful bloom inside her chest as a smile stretched across his face. And that was when she heard the door open and shut and another person joined them in the foyer. She glanced past Scott and recognized that trench coat, those scarlet eyes, that infuriating smirk sidling up his face.

Hurriedly, she walked past Scott, attempting to stop the thief in his tracks.

"_Reinette_," Remy LeBeau greeted her cordially, respectfully removing his cowboy hat. " 'M sorry t' hear of y' loss."

Jean hardly heard it; she was busy blocking the doorframe."What are you really doing here, Remy?" She was annoyed that he had found his way in, but that should not have surprised her. Remy was very good at wheedling himself into any situation. Scott looked uncomfortable and she tried to keep Remy in the doorway, afraid he might notice her company.

"Scott Summers. Nice to see you again," the thief abruptly called from the doorway—the perpetual cad. "I ain't seen y' at our meetings lately. T'ink Magneto would notice by now?"

"Magneto?" She had been surprised that they knew each other, but this latest revelation took her aback. Xavier had cited him as one of his most dangerous foes, warning her of his influence. Hadn't she avoided Remy's advances, knowing of his affiliations with that mutant? Was Scott really any different? Dumbfounded, Jean stood stupidly in her silence, passively allowing the thief to continue spreading the bad news.

"Scott hadn't de good grace t' tell y'?" Remy wagged a finger at the man, who did not reply. "F' shame, Greenstick. Well den, reckon dis comes as a surprise, _non_? He's workin' w' me, _Reinette_. He's workin' f' Magneto." Jean looked from Remy to Scott, saw his face drain of color, and knew Remy was telling the truth. "C'mon Jean; a powerful telepath, and y' never read his mind? Never wondered why he suddenly turned up after all dese years?"

Jean snapped out of her stupor and turned to Scott. "Is he to be believed?" His silence all but affirmed it. "I see." She shook her head, dismay spreading like a disease. Scott did not deny it. Guilty as ever, his jaw clenched and unclenched. And still, he was silent.

All this time…She was ashamed of what she had told him: Sara's sickness, her girlish feelings for Duncan, all to a man who worked for Magneto? Her father had told her she was too trusting for her own good, and now she knew why.

"Jeannie…" His voice, concerned. Only this time, she did not want him to care.

Incredulous now. "I can't believe this." Her only thought was to leave. She went to grab her coat and saw Scott reach for her arm. In an instant, he was thrown back hard against the wall, and she inwardly winched. It had to be done.

Remy was standing by the door, wearing his usual, sardonic smirk and looking pretty darn pleased with himself.

"_Reinette_." He bowed sarcastically, showing her out.

Ignorant, stupid girl. She walked briskly, the wind icing her body despite her coat. Behind her, she sensed Scott in tow, staggering to cover the distance between them. She might have sent him flying with a sharp flick of the wrist, but instead tossed his flowers across the lawn haphazardly, the harsh wind carrying them further down the path.

"You have some nerve, coming here, courting me for Magneto…"

"It wasn't like that, Jeannie—" He stumbled to match her pace, surprisingly quick in the cold.

"You never told me, never mentioned _him_…"

"I know I should have said it. But I didn't know how…"

"..Is that all that I am to you? A telepath? A mutant?" She turned on him suddenly. "I thought you meant what you said…" She fought back tears, losing miserably. She had wasted too much on a stranger. "I told you everything, and suppose you reported it all to Magneto… I shouldn't have…oh, God…Sara…" She was crying, outraged. She had said too much, had trusted a man she hardly knew and for what? She should not have feared him leaving—she would do it first, God help her.

His voice broke. "No, you know that's not true…"

"What _do_ I know, Scott? Suppose I don't know you at all, not when you were a boy, not now—"

"Jean, _please_!" He was beside himself with desperation. And she saw this, but felt her heart blacken and shrink into a hard, unfeeling void. He had deceived her and she would not stand for it. She flung open the side of the gate with her powers, signaling him to leave.

"Do not visit me." She sounded strange, the words snarled in her throat. "I will not have you." She walked back towards the house and he did not follow any further, the savage wind whistling after her.

* * *

**19. Marshal Cyclops**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

"Marshal, yah still awake?" The girl appeared by the doorway, wearing his military jacket he had offered her a few moments before. Somewhere, he had dropped that he had been marshal at one time or another, and before he could turn and spit, she had gone to town with that title. Marshal this, and Marshal that, until finally he decided that was enough distance for one night. They took shelter above the clearing in a small abandoned shack that might have belonged to Paul once. Scott stoked the fire and carefully pulled off his sopping wet boots to dry.

"Just got the fire going, Miss." Scott half-turned towards her, invitingly. "Join me?"

She regarded him for a moment. The fire twisted in the reflection of his bifocals, curiously red. He was a bit rumpled from his travels, his hair matted from the rain and further flattened by the hat he had removed once inside. He was kind and courteous—a person from a good family, she decided. But then again, Rogue could only assume such things. "Got anythin' tah eat?"

Scott rummaged through his pockets, and plucked out something preserved. "Pickled something or other. It's from up North…"

"Yeah? Well, we got that down South too, Fancy Boots." But she seated herself beside him and took his shabby offerings anyway.

"You always this defensive?" She saw him smiling at her, and she tried to ignore him.

"No. Sometimes Ah'm actually nice." She bit the preserved fruit and nodded. "Hey, this ain't so bad."

"Well, it isn't a five-course meal…"

"Is that how you romance a lady?" She shook her head, saw him watching her in his reserved silence. "Oh, Marshal. It's too bad you've got such fancy taste. Cain't take yah tah a camp fire, no-how."

"Why, does the fireplace not count?" She laughed at that. "I spent six years in the West and this is the thanks I get from the American contingent. I'm fancy, sure, if you count baked beans and river bass as delicacies."

"Ah lahke baked beans."

"Well, now. So do I."

She looked at him, suddenly seeing for herself that he smiled easier now, the fire animating his face. "Glad the two of us could get along after all." They sat side by side amiably, watching the fire for awhile. "What did you do in the West?" She finally asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

"I was in the Army and shot at Indians for a few years. Got tired of it, became Marshal of a small county in Arizona. Called me Cyclops because of my bifocals." He touched the rim of his glasses absently and Rogue thought it sweet.

"Marshal Cyclops." She laughed a little. "That's some title."

He smiled with her. "Got tired of that, so I moved back to New York."

"To marry?" she teased. But then his face darkened and he shook his head.

"No," he told her shortly. "Not to marry."

"Oh. She left you by then?"

"There was never a 'she.' " He shook his head, grinning suddenly. "How did this become about a girl, anyway? And why could I not have left _her_?"

"Marshal," she told him pointedly, "it's _always_ about a gal."

"All right, all right." He relented, and she leaned in to show her interest. "You want to know the truth?"

"The truth would be nice, yes," she said, nodding. "But if yah stretch it a bit, Ah won't tell no one."

He looked at her, wondering what exactly had he stumbled upon. What he really wanted to tell her was that she looked pretty in his jacket, but of course he didn't say so.

"I loved a girl once, but I don't remember her now."

"Ah don't follow," she admitted.

"It's the truth."

"Then it's a strange truth, Marshal."

"I've lived with it for six years. I thought that perhaps, returning to New York would help me find her." He shook his head, agitated. "But that never happened. I don't know her anymore. And suppose I never did."

"Is this about Remy?" she suddenly asked watching his face carefully.

He did not seem angry, only forlorn, his mouth twisted into a frown. "I don't know," he told her honestly.

Suddenly, an explosion could be heard from outside. Rogue ran to the window, pressing her face against the glass.

"Scott!" she cried. It had to be Remy; she was sure of it. The Marshal flew through the door, just in time to see the last explosion dissolve into the night sky. "Is it—?" She had followed him outside, his jacket hanging loose at her shoulders. He turned to her, impulsively reached out to straighten it around her. Rogue did not protest. For a second, she saw something wrench in his face, the moment between them ruined. She might have said something, probably to apologize for some reason or other, but he suddenly spun on his heel, heading for the shack.

"I'll get my boots," he said, all business. And Rogue knew; felt his disappointment flare and fade as he turned back inside. What a foolish question; but of course it was. It was always about Remy.

* * *

**20. The Mentor**

**Xavier Institute, 1870**

_Jean_? The professor was leaning forward inquisitively. He had not spoken outright, and that was fine, but she looked up, obviously surprised to see how she had forgotten herself. Everything in the room hovered a few inches off the floor. Shaking her head slightly, the room quietly settled back into place and she offered her mentor a small, apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Professor. I suppose…I was distracted."

"I might have guessed." His kind, sympathizing smile met her halfway. It had been three weeks since she last saw Scott and she had been frustratingly out-of-sorts since. Finally, she felt a kind of acceptance begin to settle in her. He knew he had wronged her and honored her request, angry and indignant as it might have been. There would be no knock on the door from now on. The threshold remained empty, the corridors no longer rang with his laughter. Indeed, she had come to terms with his departure, but even she could not admit how it had taken its toll on her.

He had not come to the funeral. Her mother asked after him, prodding to see if he knew about it. Perhaps. Jean tried not to be so hopeful, and felt silly that she should be more concerned with his absence than mourning her sister's death. Her grief felt displaced, and she found herself thinking about him gone more often than when she was ever with him.

Three weeks felt like forever. She was surprised she even cared to notice.

"We are right, aren't we?" Jean suddenly asked, when the silence became almost unbearable. Sensing her own abruptness, she clarified: "How mutants and humans can exist peacefully with each other." The professor rose his eyebrows; she had never questioned his reasoning before. He was her mentor, after all. He knew this world better than anybody, knew its violent, erratic ways, its rash judgments and witch hunts, and might have chosen Magneto's way of dealing with humans—to be equally as violent and rash. Powers were gifts, after all. And mutants needed to assume their superior identities.

But that was where Xavier drew the line. Mutants were not superior, despite their abilities. And unlike Magneto, he dedicated his research and time to controlling his powers in order to help humans. He had given this education to Jean, his one, true pupil. Certainly peace trumps violence. He had survived the War and its post-insurrection, the riots in Manhattan that burned down his first estate therefore forcing him to move to Bayville, his fall-out with Magneto. She had heard these stories and believed them with the patience of a schoolgirl. He had taught her to control her powers, learn from them, never to abuse them for her own gain. And she had followed his directions without dissent. But then suddenly, she posed this question. Suddenly, none of it was enough.

"I have taught you all that I know, Jean. It is up to you to decide if it is what you believe."

"No, I'm sure it is; there isn't anything closer to the truth. I've always been convinced that you are right to say these things, to advocate for peace." But there was doubt in her voice and she quickly stopped herself. Xavier might have read her mind, but her hesitation was written so plainly on her face that there was no need to invade her thoughts.

"I know you will find your ground, Jean. It is inside you, it is inside all of us. We need to find a way. And you will too."

She did not respond, rendered incapable of agreeing or disputing this. Suddenly, as though the breeze had entered the room, her thoughts carelessly flitted through her mind. She was very powerful, yes—he had known this all along. But at that moment, she was reduced to something fallible, quiet and conflicted. After all, she was only human.

_I miss him._ She had not mentioned Scott to the Professor—no, it had been too personal. But he might have guessed as much; her sadness was marked in her averted gaze, her lackluster demeanor. Her sister's death alone could not have caused this change in his pupil. Jean stared down hard at the open copy of "War and Peace" before her, struggling to save face.

"Perhaps we should continue at another time," Xavier suggested, as if sensing she were on the verge of tears at that point.

"No, Professor, I—"

"It's been a long week, Jean. I'm surprised you even insisted to come despite your sister's passing." She looked away, instantly ashamed. "Go home and return tomorrow. We can always resume where we left off."

Reluctantly, she closed her book and packed her things, afraid she might have offended him by her inattention.

**. . .**

"Professor," she called from the front door, her voice echoing through the empty halls. The following day had brought heavy rains, a sign that Fall was truly upon them. She shook out her hair, newly mussed from the rain, and removed her boots at the threshold. "I'm sorry I'm running late," she said, heading into the drawing room. "The train was delayed…"

The Professor looked up from his usual armchair, hands folded in his lap. This time, though, he had company. Jean froze in her tracks, surprised.

Scott Summers stood, his face drawn apologetic. She opened her mouth though words failed to form. The professor pivoted in his seat and smiled.

"Ah, Jean. Scott Summers here had dropped by earlier. He told me you two were… well, we've been having a fascinating conversation on law and order and in between."

She had not stopped looking at Scott. Catching herself staring, she turned away and regarded the professor with a placid smile.

"Oh," she managed, feeling awkward in such a familiar place. "Should I start the kettle? I see the fire's been stoked."

"Scott here has already done both. Come and join us, Jean."

Not wanting to seem rude in front of her mentor, Jean obeyed, keeping her eyes averted and her mind quiet. She watched as Scott took his place on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward to pour her a cup of tea. She accepted it without a word and kept her eyes on Xavier who sat watching them both as if amused by the circumstance.

Finally, before the moment became too unpleasant, Scott coughed and finished his tea. "I apologize, Professor. I believe I've overstayed my welcome."

The disappointment in Xavier's face was obvious. "Nonsense, Scott. It's been a pleasure."

Jean blinked, disbelievingly. "You're leaving? Already?"

Xavier gave her an inquisitive glance, but Scott kept his head trained in the mentor's direction.

"Perhaps next week," he offered the Professor, extending out his hand to shake which Xavier took without hesitation.

"I look forward to it."

When Scott stood, Jean did too. Another awkward silence ensued, before Xavier decided to interrupt.

"Jean, why don't you find Scott an umbrella. The rain is quite heavy this afternoon."

She was flustered, thankful for a task to do. "Yes. Yes of course."

"Second door down the hall," he advised kindly. "Good day, Scott. I hope to see you again."

"Certainly." He replaced his hat and touched its rim. "Professor."

**. .**

She walked with him to the front door, holding out the umbrella Xavier had insisted he take.

"It's raining hard. You don't want to catch cold."

He took it obligingly. And yet he lingered, replacing his hat on his head and looking out into the rain.

"I understand now," he drawled quietly, "why you respect him. He is a very intelligent man."

Jean nodded in agreement. "His methods are not so controversial, yes." She looked at him then, eagerly searching his face. "So you see why I cannot join Magneto."

He paused, his bifocals glinting. "I do." He took a step forward undecidedly. "I…I'm sorry. I had hoped…" he trailed off, the color suddenly rising in his face. But when he started again, there was renewed confidence in his words. "I confess I had wanted to see you, Miss Grey, despite your wishes. And I know now you were right to stand by Xavier." The lines in his face softened. "I believe the man has a point in his purpose, that humans and mutants can exist peacefully. I have asked to meet with him again if only to solidify his support of that proposition."

Vaguely, she wondered how long he had been there, having learned so much already. "My, it does not take much to change your mind."

But Scott was adamant. "I never had a mind to change. My affiliations are more from duty than belief." He regarded her for a moment in his own stolid silence. "I never told Magneto a thing about you, Jean. I only wanted you to know that."

She closed her eyes, felt him start to move away. "Mr. Summers." He paused, lifting his head in her direction. "Scott." She did not know exactly what to tell him. He had come against orders, risking everything if only to see a man he knew meant the world to her. He would pay dearly for it, but at that moment, he had proven that she was more to him than any affiliation he honored. Still, she wanted to be sure. "What are your intentions, then?"

His smile was kind; a small, familiar feeling of hope bloomed in the depths of her heart and tears pricked her eyes—for the first time, perhaps since their reacquaintance, did she finally see him in incredible clarity. "You accused me, said I deceived you. That I made you believe I liked you to the degree that you might have felt the same for me." He shook his head. "What else could I have done? I could not lose you too."

_If I had a gun_

_I'd shoot a hole into the sun_

_And I would burn this city down for you._

_If I had the time,_

_I'd stop the world and make you mine_

_And everyday would stay the same with you. (1)_

Remy LeBeau stood off to where he could not be seen. He had followed Scott to that handsome house in Bayville, watched as Jean arrived a few hours later, and knew very well where this would all lead. He saw them on the front porch together, an umbrella between them, unopened. She looked to him expectantly. He might have recognized that look on any woman's face: she wanted him to kiss her. He watched as Scott's head slowly tipped forward. Time crawled torturously, taunting Remy on the sidelines who could not quite rip himself away from the scene unfolding before him. Scott hesitated, as if searching her face, unsure of where to begin or what to do. Hatred flared in Remy—or was it jealousy?—how easily she slipped into his arms. The memory of them together would haunt him, unforgiving like a nick in his side that had healed improperly. Her arms easing around his neck. Their faces touching. _Putain_. He had had enough. Remy got back on his horse and rode south, determined to make good time. To hell with the lot of them. Magneto would need to know of this.

* * *

(1) Noe Gallagher's High Flying Birds, If I had a Gun

A technical side note: Tuberculosis, also known as consumption, is a very contagious disease which continues to plague the modern world (but by no means to the same extent as the previous centuries). The bug makes itself right at home in your lungs, creating a tubercle to protect itself. If a person is actively infected, the bug is spread very rapidly to those close by. However, having the bug and showing symptoms are two very different things. If you show symptoms, you are contagious. You might also be infected and never show symptoms. It is when the immune system is weakened that the bug begins to infect the body. There really was not much a person could do once in active stages of the disease. Besides blood-letting and purging of the body, other steam doctors recommended bathing, sun exposure, and fresh air which were nice but certainly not completely curative. The cause of the illness was not identified until 1882.

Happy New Year! I've been quite the stalemate, but I don't think I really wrote anything worth reading until I watched BBC's 2009 Emma. I'd like to think of Jean and Scott in that "civilized" manner; very Victorian. Anywho, glad to be back, so perhaps the next time we meet, we'll be heading out West, with a few more treacherous plot lines to follow!


	20. Twenty

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: Good to be back, folks! I've finally gotten out of my funk and hope you're up for some reading! By all means, Enjoy!

* * *

Your eyes have been opened. And now you cannot close them. **-Miss Havisham, _Great Expectations_**

* * *

**21. Little Queen**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

_Boom_! The trees rattled with his latest explosion, shattering the silence and emitting a brief flash of red before disappearing altogether. Remy LeBeau was attracting unwanted attention, he knew. He felt her eyes watching him; he saw her remorse, the immensity of her presence, and did not want anything to do with it.

Oh, how things were different now.

Jean smiled, eyes radiant, face vacant. It was as if she had appeared from nothing, formed from the air between them. And still he did not approach.

"Remy…" her voice; her sweet, unadulterated beckon faded rapidly. The rain had stopped, the fog had lifted. And still he did not come.

He tried to smirk, but he was bothered. He reached into his pocket, rifled through its contents without purpose. He was looking for something to do.

Finally, as though she could not stand his silence, Jean retracted. "I hope you're happy now."

"Happy with what?" Remy feigned surprise. "Thet y' pulled me out back dere? No confidence in me. A cryin' shame."

"A simple thank you might have sufficed."

He smirked. "I'm not a grateful man, Reinette."

The girl shuddered as if insulted. "Don't say such accursed things. After being absent for all these years." Her voice, burdened by exacting hurt behind her bluntness. She had missed him, he vaguely realized. "You never did write," she put in quietly, her breath evaporating in the cold.

Remy stared out into the rain. "I didn't have anything t' say." He kept his distance, hands in pockets, eyes averted. He did not dare make eye contact.

"But you do." She took a step closer without thinking twice. "You came all this way for some reason." He caught the glimmer of her ring and regretted it. She settled back into the darkness, undoubtedly satisfied; she had seen him looking. "So you've heard the news."

"I have." Remy charged another card and sent it above their heads. "Everyone has." He did not fidget under her gaze. He was very keen not to appear uncomfortable, because he was not. In fact, he did not feel a thing.

"And you've come to advise me otherwise." She sounded a bit too hopeful for her own good. She covered the distance between them enthusiastically, that smile returning easily to her face. Remy held his breath as unease crept into his veins, making him rigid. Another point in time, he might have welcomed her ingenuous affection, taking advantage of the entire situation. Now, though, he only wanted it to end.

"I've waited so long, Remy. I've thought about what you'd say when we met again…" Jean stopped, finally noticing his chagrin. For a moment, she allowed the silence to find its way back between them. "I don't know why," she said after a little while, "but you are avoiding me."

"Y' don't know what y' sayin'. What y' want." He turned on her, barely containing his anger. It had been Xavier's idea, after all. Help her, he said. Save her, he said.

"You told me once we were more alike than I could ever imagine. You said you were afraid that you would wake up to find a burning house. That you might ignite your own bed. How you feared yourself sometimes." Her eyes searched his. "Did you mean it? Or did you lie about that too?"

_Dieu_. She remembered _that_? He kicked at the ground, rattled by the things she never forgot. Jean nodded, looking satisfied with his reaction.

"You left so suddenly, I never had the chance to tell you…"

Those were the days he hated gin, gambled until the break of dawn, spent quality time with soiled doves. Magneto said, Here's your next assignment, get to it. So without anything else to do, he hopped a freight and got off in New York. But it was like waking up in a different world; he almost didn't believe he was still in the same country. He did not care for their starched skirts and buttoned collars. He hated their paved roads, their manufactured smiles, aching instead for its city limits if only to get the hell out of there.

Maybe she was a sight for sore eyes. He had been with women, but _merde_, never a _lady_. And she did not talk down to him, did not regard him with anything but the utmost respect. Maybe it was wrong to believe it, but he couldn't help hoping that someday, maybe she could love him too.

She was very sure of herself. He was impressed by her confidence, the very fact that she did not need him. She had wealth, reputation. She was a socialite, prudent and lovely and kept away like a secret. Like hell, she needed him; he might as well have been from the moon. Yet despite all of this, she did not treat him any different. She was not repulsed by his red eyes, his indelicate ways. She had said she liked his accent. On more than one occasion, he spoke to her in his language, that Cajun French which always made her smile. Perhaps it was fruitless; perhaps he was only wasting his time. But he shouldn't have said those things. He should not have told her the truth. It would make anyone laugh, how he had made himself a fool.

He must have known she could never love him. She was a lady of ways and means after all and was resolved to marry well. He was not stupid enough to believe she would trade her society for his status, his shameful history and standing. She would not have him then, not as a thief, a Southern. They were on opposite ends of the War, for goodness sake. But he loved her all the same.

"I never told you, Remy, but I felt exactly the same way. I thought, if I kept my powers to myself, it would be my secret, and my secret alone. My burden to bear." She paused. "We were the same in that way." It was like a dream, hearing this from her. She meant it, of course. He could see it in her face, how she watched for his reaction. He did not doubt her intentions. And it scared him to have all he wished about her come true.

Any other time, he might have yielded. But he knew it was all false; she had not felt this way then, and he would not let her do so now.

"Dis Duncan Matthews." He took a long look in her direction. "He good t' y'?"

Her jaw dropped a little, but she recovered instantly. For a moment, she had forgotten her bethrothed. "Yes. In many ways he is." She frowned slightly. "Of course, I was hoping the news would be more affecting. You're taking it quite well, actually."

Remy shook his head. "Don't marry him, _Reinette_."

Her smile had returned. "That's more like it."

"Not f' me." He shook his head, took a quick breath. "Listen, Jean. Y' were engaged once, t' someone else." Her face clouded then with animosity. She took a few steps away from him, shaking her head.

"That cannot be true."

"An' thet's where y' wrong, Reinette. If it hadn't been f' me…"

She stammered. "Seems a waste, blaming yourself for something that never happened..."

"Thet's what y' choose t' believe, but y' know, don't y'." He was searching her face then, desperate now. "Y' know somethin's not right. Somethin's always missin'."

Her eyes fell away briefly. "I've never felt that way," she lied.

"Y' know." For the first time, he faced her fully, resolute and indignant. "Y' forgot—"

She cut him off. "I am a _telepath_, Remy. I would never forget if it were that important to me…"

"I've done dis t' y'." The truth, squandered because she would not believe it.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel so guilty about it, but why does it matter so much, anyway?" She tried to reassure him: "I am happy with Duncan. Isn't that enough?" Remy felt ill. Her hands rested lightly on his arms, her voice comforting and strangely empty. He had hoped it would be enough to tell her the truth. Xavier had warned him not to tell her, remind her; her powers might surge again past the point of control, but he would carry a heavy conscience if he did not tell her at all. Yet here she was unscathed and falsely content, her memories happy but incomplete, and it was all his fault.

"Remy." Her hands cupped his face, her eyes smiling. Funny, how a few years before she held Scott just so, and Remy had always hated him for it. "You're thinner, a little gaunt than I remember last." Vaguely, he thought of Rogue, and something rueful wrenched at his heart. Her smile was punishing. He felt the heavy guilt in his bones like a weakness of old, rheumy age come to back to haunt him.

Why hadn't the Professor intervened? After all these years, he might have told her _something_.

_It is the only way,_ Charles Xavier had concluded. _We will lose her otherwise._

"Y' shouldn't've come." He pushed past her, the sudden need for a smoke driving his hands searching into his pockets.

Jean crossed her arms in front of her, obviously dismayed with his disinterest in her. "Xavier had sent me," she pointed out.

"Ah. De beloved mentor. " He nodded. "Cain't ever deny de old _homme_ anythin', eh _Reinette_?" His pet name for her, suddenly patronizing.

She was slighted, he could tell. "You always called me that. 'Little Queen.' I'll never understand you, Remy." He suddenly became aware of her gaze as she waited for him to respond. His mind froze and thoughts went black, surfacing now, remembering when he had left Paul's, turning to glance back at her window...How confusing. He had wanted this for a good portion of his life—he had wanted _her—_and now as she stood so close, he could only think of someone else.

"Rogue, I—"

Instantly, he realized his mistake; met her gaze. Jean's face had drained of color; she did not know whether to be surprised or offended.

"What did you just call me?" She asked him quietly.

* * *

**22. Bait**

**Annadale-on-Hudson, New York, 1871**

He was sitting in the back of the saloon, settled with a cup of brandy for his troubles. He did not think she would come, at a time such as this, showing her face in something so beneath her. But when she walked through the front door, the whole room seemed to become aware of her presence. She was hastily dressed, her hair coming undone beneath her bonnet. Jean Grey had been crying, he could tell. Remy pushed away his unfinished liquor and sat back in his chair. He did not smile. He was done with that charming charade.

"_Reinette_..."

"Do not call me that," she snapped, causing a few heads to turn in their direction. "I have a name."

Remy LeBeau paid for his drink and replaced the cowboy hat on his head. "I see y' got my letter," he mused, walking through the front door as she followed close behind.

"How could you do this to him? He was your friend," she told him angrily. And when Remy did not so much as respond, he felt a force stop in his tracks before roughly turning him to face her.

He was cruel in his defiance. "Magneto is keen on dese things. Scott shouldn't've tried t' run away."

"He did so for me."

"But de military, Jean?" Remy shook his head with disbelief.

"He was trying to make something of himself."

"_Non_; what he was tryin' t' do was run away."

Her voice shook with outrage. "You would turn him in. You would tell Magneto."

He did not know how he came to notice, through the din of it all, that on her finger, she wore his ring. It riled him, how she had said yes to Scott Summers, or that the _homme_ had even the grit to ask.

Resounding silence. "Is he alive?" Jean suddenly asked.

Remy paused, eyes cast down. Slowly, he nodded.

"What does Magneto want?"

"Jean…"

"What does he intend to do with me? With Scott?" After a minute, Remy noticed her silence. He watched her eyes widen and realized what she had done.

He took a few steps back, angry that she had read his mind. "Will y' quit it already? I aim t' tell y'—"

"What? You mean, using my powers? Isn't that what Magneto would have wanted? Using them for my own agenda, my own gain?" He looked to her helplessly. "And what is it to you? Because you cared for me once? Admired me, even dwelt on asking for my hand—"

"I wouldn't have—I know better—get outta my _head_—" He backed away from her, insulted and unraveled by his own undoing.

"Jealousy is not fitting of a gentleman. Love has twisted you, contorted you into something I cannot love back."

Oh, she was so very correct in her assessment. He drew in a sharp breath, the old bitterness tearing him to pieces. "Y' never would have had me," he said.

Her expression did not change. "And now we are all unhappy." She turned away, the prettiness of her eyes dampened. "Go to Magneto. Tell him I will join him—"

"But Jean…"

"If it guarantees Scott's release, I will do so. I want him alive." Tears had reached the corners of her eyes. "I need him alive."

Remy was thoroughly dumbfounded by what she was saying. "Y'd leave Xavier f' him? Throw it all away…Jean, he's y' _mentor_…"

"You are not so indifferent to understand. You would do the same for me." She paused by the door but did not face him. "We will finally be on the same side, Remy. You've finally succeeded. I will be waiting for you at Xavier's tomorrow. Good night."

Maybe he should have proud. He knew how this would please Magneto. And yet, he watched her disappear with mounting despair. Perhaps it was how easily she had come about her decision: what took years on his part, Scott only needed to be removed and she came immediately after him. Remy could not be satisfied; there was nothing triumphant about this.

_Well maybe I'm a crook for stealing your heart away_

_Well maybe I'm a crook for not caring for it._

_And maybe I'm a bad, bad, bad person_

_Well baby, I know. (1)_

* * *

**23. Reporting for Duty**

**Magneto Ranch, Texas, 1871**

When Gambit finally reached the Ranch, he found Magneto in his great armchair, watching as Creed pummeled what was left of Scott in the other room.

"When you are finished with your lashing, Sabretooth, have a care to wipe up his blood. There is nothing worse than a stained carpet, you understand." Magneto smiled and regarded Remy pleasantly. "Have you finally news of the girl, Gambit?"

But the thief was watching the lashing in the next room. "Does he have to do that now?" he asked. Creed overheard and slammed Scott against the wall just to spite Remy.

"I thought you would have rather liked to see Summers so miserable, seeing that it was he who came between you and the telepath."

Remy faced Magneto fully. "She has decided to join us. We are to be at Xavier's tomorrow."

Magneto smiled, completely expecting to hear it. "This is very good news indeed."

"But Summers must be kept alive." Remy set his teeth. "She has asked f' thet specifically."

Magneto rested his chin on his hand. "Of course." He gave a motion with his hand and Creed fell away from Scott. Remy could see the bruises just beginning to form on Scott's face, a long gash under his eye bleeding heavily. "I could not have expected it sooner. It was only a matter of time before they fell too much in love with each other."

_Ga Lee,_ was what was running through Remy's mind, the realization hitting him like a petrified log. "Y' planned this from the beginning, " he said. "You _wanted_ dem t' fall in love. Y' only needed Scott t' get t' Jean, an' now…now he's live bait."

Magneto's smile widened. "It was perfect, Gambit. I could never have dreamed that this would turn out any better than it has." He stood suddenly, and Remy saw him reach for his helmet. "She cannot refuse us now. Xavier's finest, finally ours for the taking!" He chuckled softly, nodding in approval. "Yes, it has turned out better than I ever imagined."

He took something from his pocket and Remy recognized the red gleam of Scott's bifocals shining between the Master's hands. And then he realized Magneto was holding them out for him to take. "Your consolation prize," he simply offered.

Remy was at a loss, knowing that they were all just pawns in Magneto's grand scheme of things. He had betrayed and been betrayed. He should not have been surprised, staring at the bifocals now in his possession, but he was all the same.

* * *

**24. Charles Xavier**

**Bayville, Massachusetts 1871**

The window gave way too easily. Remy was at it again, a different mansion this time, easing through the glass and into the parlor room. He closed the window and took a minute to look around. The room was exquisite, walls paneled by maple wood, smelling of lavender. He had never actually stepped foot in the place before and was instantly struck by its grandeur. The fireplace was roaring, its warmth inviting. There were ships in bottles on the mantle, a grandfather clock with its pendulum swinging behind its glass.

Remy noticed a gold watch sitting on the couch, left there indiscreetly. He paused, reconsidering. And then he reached over and plucked it from its place, immediately keen on its weight. Fitted with real gold, he thought vaguely. His eyes shut; he closed his hand around the watch.

"You know, it is only proper to receive guests through the front door." Panic flooded his body, but experience told Remy to keep his head. His hand automatically at the ready in his pocket, the watch in his other, Remy half-turned, trying for a smile while fighting the urge to run.

Xavier wheeled himself into the parlor; the kindness on the professor's face surprised the thief.

"Remy LeBeau, I presume? We have never been formally introduced, but I have heard of a scarlet-eyed thief with a penchant for pretty things." The professor nodded to the watch in Remy's hand. The thief gave a short laugh, carefully replacing the item back on the couch.

"Take it, y' know why I've come," he murmured.

Xavier said, "Jean is not here."

"I'm not here for Jean," Remy returned evenly. He watched as Xavier wheeled himself closer. "But y' already knew thet."

"I know you have been working for Magneto. You owe him everything, as he demands it all. You did, though, first come here looking for Jean. But she would not go to you. So Magneto went for her heart because he could not get through to her head."

"She wants t' join him now, but I know it ain't safe."

Xavier folded his hands in his lap. "You care for her, deeply."

Remy clenched his teeth. "Y' in my head too?"

"What for, when it is written plainly on your face."

Remy swallowed hard; ignored his observation. "Somehow, Magneto knew dey'd fall in love. An' den he had us take Scott. He took away dem bifocals and Creed's nearly killed him—he hated him, always did. Jean is de only thing keepin' him from dyin' by his hands. She knows thet, and will put everything on de line—her reputation, her family, even y'—if it means savin' him."

Xavier paused for a long moment. "Troubling. Troubling indeed."

"We supposed t' take her from here t'morrow. But tell her t' stay. Tell her it ain't worth it. I see thet now. I live thet life already."

Xavier studied him from his place in his chair. "It is strange, that you have done exactly the same for her, what she intends to do for Scott. It is dangerous for you to be here, and yet you came to warn me. To tell me."

"Please, she will listen t' y'."

"I am afraid the effort would be futile. Her mind is made up. Even I cannot change it now." Remy turned away, anger pulsing in his veins. "But I will try, for her sake."

Xavier sat back and offered his hand to Remy who took it and gave it a shake.

"Much obliged, _monsieur_."

But Xavier was not finished. "Remy LeBeau, you are not the enemy. As much as you believe you are a waste, there is something in you that is made for more than Magneto wants. I am sorry it took this long for you to realize it."

The thief dropped his hand; touched his hat. It were as if his soul had been exposed and granted, he did not like it very much. Remy left it at that and showed himself out, through the front door this time, as was only proper of a guest.

* * *

**25. Mastermind**

**Magneto Ranch, Texas, 1871**

Magneto said, "You're late."

"Yes, well, the old donkey refused to move the last half-hour. It's quite a walk, and I won't make the journey without the donkey." The man took off his cape and strode through the long corridor. He was short, with close-set eyes and crowded teeth, his posture stooped and somewhat menacing.

"I trust that you will finish the job as completely and quickly as possible, Wyngarde."

"You've a mind to tell me what to do. You who'd give his own daughter away for my services." Mastermind removed his cape, and smoothed down his sideburns.

"Just get the job done. The boy is here." The candle was brought to the floor where someone lay, his breathing shallow and body unmoving.

"He's barely alive," Mastermind observed.

"He should not have crossed me. He would rather have the military than work with the likes of me," Magneto put in. "See to it that it is done, Wyngarde."

When Magneto had shut the door, Mastermind crouched down, a hand on the boy's head. Immediately, Scott flinched, but did not strike. Instead, he begged.

"Please." He was weak, scarcely able to talk. "Help me."

"There, there. I see now, I see you are suffering a great deal, a great deal indeed." The man shook his head, placed his fingers on Scott's temple. "Shush, boy. I will help you. You will not suffer much longer, rest assured."

* * *

**26. Reckoning**

**Xavier's Mansion, Bayville, Massachusetts, 1871**

The clock chimed one o'clock in the afternoon.

Jean was waiting with her bags packed on the porch as Remy paced back and forth beyond the front steps. She had not moved all morning, only sat motionless, staring past the gate and into the trees. Perhaps she wondered after her fate; perhaps she already knew it. Remy would always remember how silent she was, walking down the steps when Magneto finally arrived, letting himself in with a swipe of his hand. The iron gates bent to his bidding and were tossed open with a swipe of his arm.

She stepped out into the landing to meet him. Remy could see Xavier by the door, watching her leave.

Magneto tipped his head to one side, genuinely pleased. "Ah, it is a pleasure to finally meet the girl behind the mentor. I have heard so much about you, my dear."

She said, "Where is he?"

"You see how very cold and cruel this world truly is. What it takes is sheer strength and determination to survive."

"What has happened to Scott Summers?" she demanded further.

Magneto seemed annoyed that she chose to push this on him. "He is safe." He smiled unkindly. "He is here." He made a quick motion with his hand. Victor Creed appeared, dragging the boy behind him. It was clear he was not conscious, badly beaten, his military uniform torn and bloodied, eyes bandaged and blind. The foreman dumped him on the ground, spitting and smiling at the boy at his feet. Remy cringed inwardly, heard Jean's breath catch as she stood beside him. She took a few steps forward, but Magneto held up a hand, halting her in her tracks.

"Patience, girl. Use your powers."

She swallowed, focusing hard, and closed her eyes. She strained under Scott's deadweight, lifted him off a few inches from the ground and brought him closer. She received him in her arms, cradled him and kissed him, her hands at his face, touching his wounds, his bandaged eyes. He looked to Remy like a dead man, a solid corpse in her arms.

"Such a tender moment. Reunited, at last." Magneto could not resist a smile. "But now you must leave him. Now, you must come with me."

She did not regard him, no; she was gazing intently at Scott, and then something about her changed. Suddenly, she let Scott fall away as he came to life, groaning weakly, reaching for bifocals that were not there.

"You've changed him," she gasped, and then she was fighting for leverage, separating herself from Scott as quickly as possible. "No, no, no" she was saying, over and over again, the agony on her face widening, deepening. Remy had a sinking feeling then, knowing this could only go south from here.

"You do not need him anymore, my dear," Magneto said pointedly.

"_He does not remember me!"_ she shrieked. "You did this to him!"

"There is no need for him to know you anymore."

"You promised—"

"I kept him alive. And now that you have seen him, you must keep your end of the deal."

"He is not my Scott! _He does not know me!"_

"Come, girl. He was ignorant and foolish, and you will do away with him because he has already done so with you."

Remy saw something in her that was not there before. The telepath rode up into the air, her eyes closed. No, this was not Jean. This was something entirely different.

"Force it out of them," Creed was saying under his breath.

Xavier closed his eyes.

The ground shifted. The dirt, the dust rose into the air, circling them. The power ensnared the fountain, tore it from its perch, bent the trees, and reached toward the skies. She was a tornado, a force of nature.

"She will tear this place to the ground!" Magneto shrieked, laughing all the while.

Remy staggered backwards. This were more than just her powers; something was not quite right. "She cannot control it!" he cried, trying to steer clear of the debris flying everywhere. The Old Boss stepped back, suddenly baffled. He had not expected this. Briefly, fear flickered on Magneto's face. And then he too realized the danger of standing too close, nearly colliding with the fountain's birth bath. Remy saw him nod to Sabretooth, and the two retreated back beyond the estate.

"You can't just leave her like this!" Remy yelled after them as they disappeared out of range. So he ran up the steps to where Xavier was seated, already attempting to probe past the destruction.

"Can you stop it?" Remy yelled over the roar. He could hardly see Jean swallowed by her own powerful twister.

The professor winced openly. "There seems to be another force I did not know was there before. Jean's mind has given way to something more powerful, more dangerous."

"Help her," Remy was pleading.

Xavier closed his eyes, concentrated hard. The tornado was now at his front steps, tearing at the foundation.

"There!" Almost immediately, it all came to a sudden halt. Debris fell deadweight from the sky. Jean was the last to fall. Remy ran to catch her, tumbling to the ground, his arms around her. She was convulsing, her eyes rolled back, the seizures pulsating through her mind, her body. "Xavier!" Remy yelled, helpless as he watched her jerk back and forth. Finally, after an eternity, it stopped. Her body lolled, just as lifeless as Scott. Scott…

But there was no time; the Professor was beckoning at the door. "Bring her inside," Xavier called urgently. "We must take steps to prevent this from worsening." Remy brought her to the couch, watching as Xavier folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, eyes closed in deep concentration.

And so, Remy waited.

* * *

**27. Aftermath**

**Xavier's Mansion, Bayville, Massachusetts 1871**

The door opened, and Xavier wheeled himself out, looking tired but smiling hopefully as Remy met him in the hallway.

"She will be all right."

Remy let out a sigh of relief, running his hands through his hair, his unshaven face.

"But," Xavier continued, "it was not without a sacrifice."And so he explained. "I am afraid that if she remembers Scott, her powers will consume her. We were able to intervene this last time, but we cannot afford to let it go so far again. Because her memory of Scott provoked these events, I had to suppress them. All of them."

The silence was deafening. "…She doesn't know him?" Remy tried to understand.

"She cannot." There was note of warning in his voice. "You must destroy their letters, Remy. Any remaining memento could trigger this again…"

Remy couldn't believe what he was hearing. "_Non_, I cain't…"

"We will lose her, Remy. This power inside her, it is strong—more powerful than I ever imagined. It is a small price to pay."

"Do y' know what y' askin' me t' _do_?" Remy yelled. Xavier might as well have asked him to kill Scott himself.

"I wish it were different. I wish it were not him." Xavier shook his head. "But we must act quickly, Remy. I will tell her parents not to mention him again. I will try to suppress their memories of him as well. At the very least we are spared. Scott does not know her now."

Remy banged his fist into the wall. "It was an evil thing f' Magneto t' do, and y' know it."

Xavier frowned. "You must understand. The best thing for her is to move on." He closed his eyes. Even he did not like his options. "I am sorry that you would be the one to do it." And then he placed the plain gold band into his palm. Remy had remembered noticing it on her finger; he knew very well who had given it to her. How fitting, Remy thought to himself bitterly, for a thief with a penchant for pretty things.

Remy rose slowly, his body suddenly leaden. He paused by the doorframe, staring at Jean's unmoving body on the couch. And then without another word, he made his way down the familiar path to where she lived.

**. . .**

It was an effort to steal into her room, a thing he had done countless times before without a thought to it. Pop the lock, push the glass, slip through its narrow crack. She had been reading Scott's letters before she left for Xavier's and they were strewn across the floor, her bed. There might have been enough to make a small book; there were so many. Methodically, he worked, folding them back into their envelopes, taking care not to read a single word. He knew what he had done to the both of them, and this was his penance. He finished the task quickly, gathering the letters and locking them away in a gingersnap cookie tin he emptied out the window. In went the letters, those sentimental things, military identity tags, and finally, her ring, a simple golden band with his initials carved on the inside so as to sit against the vessel said to lead to her heart. Remy exhaled slowly, deeply, knowing what he had done.

Burn them, the Professor had said. Remembering her sleeping peacefully back at the mansion, Remy felt his own guilt swell, ensnared by his own conceit. You've made your bed, he thought to himself as he stared down at the tin box before him. Now lay in it.

* * *

**28. The Fortune Teller**

**Magneto Ranch, Texas 1871**

"A seizure you say." Magneto took a generous pull on his cigar, a thoughtful expression across his face.

Remy nodded once. "Xavier has her comatose for the time being."

"Pity," the Master lamented. "Now she is but damaged goods."

Remy swallowed hard. "She doesn't remember him."

Magneto glanced up, setting his liquor back on the table. A glimmer of satisfaction crossed his face briefly.

"You may go." The Old Boss waved him away.

But Remy did not. "If she had fallen in love with me, would y' have used me as bait? Beaten me like a dog, put me up in exchange f' her? Have my memories erased?"

The Master's face did not change, tapped the ashes from his smoke. "But she didn't love you. And therefore, I didn't have to."

Remy was stunned. "So it pleases y' thet she cain't remember him. Y' had Summers' memories of her removed. No one wins if y' cain't."

Magneto was less than sympathetic. "You speak as though you were not aware of the technicalities of this business. You are not indispensable." He turned away then, motioning with his hand for Remy to leave. "Go," he ordered. "I will not tell you again."

**. . . **

Remy pushed through the door, seething. _Not indispensable_, he kept thinking. He had always known the risks of doing this job, but now he felt the knife at his back a bit too close for comfort.

And then someone called his name. There in the shadows, a figure sat.

Remy peered into the darkness cautiously. "Do I know y'?"

"No." A woman stood up, drawing closer. "It is all right, young man. Magneto cannot hear us. He believes you've already gone." She stepped into the light and Remy could see the blankness in her eyes. The woman was blind. "I can see you are angry. You might do something rash." She nodded knowingly and returned to her seat. "Sit with me awhile. I have much to tell you."

"Have you always been here?"

"Well." She smiled, folding her hands in her lap. "I have been here a long time."

"Do you work for Magneto?" At this, she laughed.

"It is work, isn't it? After awhile, it gets old, you drag your feet, you watch the clock. But there's no punching out. There's no time clock. You just keep doing it until it becomes a way of life. But it is hard, because you know you are not indispensible." Those words again. Had she overheard? Remy felt the familiar prick of anger at his heart and gazed down at his hands.

"A blow, it is. After believing you had been needed all this while." She sat back, allowing him to collect his anger. "And now you cannot leave, after witnessing firsthand what Magneto is capable of doing."

"How do you know this, _femme_? Have y' been watchin' me?"

She laughed as if he had made a joke. "Yes, but a different sort of watching." She bent forward secretively. "I can see the future. And I have seen yours."

The realization knocked the breath out of him. "Y' were de one who told Magneto Jean and Scott would fall in love."

"But I did not tell him how it would end. He assumed it would work itself out, but what a false hope he had." She tipped her head towards him. "Are you not curious to learn of your own destiny? Would you care to know you've been looking towards the North, when your expectations should be in the South?"

"De South…?"

She smiled secretively. "Find Lance Alvers. He will tell you where to go, what to do."

"Magneto's crony of de Brotherhood? What's he got t' do with it?"

But the woman only shook her head. "You are a Tracker, are you not? Your next mutant will be in the South." And then her face turned curious. "Do you know what a rogue is?" she asked him.

* * *

**29. Military Man**

**Annadale Orphanage, New York, 1871**

_I wish I was a slave to an age old trade._

_Like riding 'round on railcars and working long days._

_Lord've mercy on my rough and rowdy ways. (2)_

The orphanage was quiet at this hour. Again, Remy rang the doorbell, his breath catching in his throat as the door was finally unlocked and opened.

"Oh it's you. I was wondering how late after hours would you come."

Remy tipped his hate congenially. "Obliged." He paid her in full and set off to where he had just visited last night. "Has he asked f' her?" Remy said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

The mistress frowned. "He never does."

A lamp was lit and its glow led him down the corridor to the last room in the corner, the silence broken by a scampering rat heading the opposite direction. Remy turned the knob and let himself in.

The silhouette of a man shaded the dressing mirror, and Remy was vaguely aware that Scott Summers was aiming to leave. The military jacket had been mended and washed, his wounds had started to heal, the bifocals returned as a favor. They never spoke, never talked about that day. The orphanage was more of a holding cell until Scott was physically ready to return to the West and complete his service term in the military. That was all he knew now. So Remy watched by the door as the private finished buttoning his jacket.

"Come to see me off?" It was a sort of joke between them, that Scott would return to the orphanage, a place he had been determined to leave. No hospital would have him. The mistress of the orphanage was very willing, however, as Xavier had promised to pay her handsomely for helping him. It was understood, however, that Scott Summers was not to remain in Annadale-on-Hudson. And it was just as well, since Scott had no intention of staying. "Don't worry, Remy. I'll be out of this place soon enough. One less burden for you to carry." He had been blighted by Xavier who had turned down his requests to visit, and Magneto had gone and dumped him back where he had found him. Even these visits from Remy were scornful—wooden and methodic, a duty born of guilt not friendship.

Remy pulled out the picture of Jean, the one Scott had kept in his jacket pocket during his travels. He had taken it when he first brought Scott back to the orphanage. He had never asked him about her, and though the repercussions were immense if Xavier ever caught wind of this, Remy had to be sure.

"Look here, Scott." He pushed her picture at him. "Do y' know her?"

The soldier hardly gave it a glance. "Come all this way to show me a picture."

"I won't let y' go 'til y' see it." Remy grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the light so that he might have a better look at it.

"Have off." Scott pulled away his arm and Remy did not fight for it again. He gave the picture a long look. "Yes, she is very pretty. Is she your intended? A little refined for your taste, I take it. But you always liked pretty things." He fastened his cuff buttons and straightened his jacket and Remy held the picture limp in his hands, disappointment flaring in his chest. "Now then, I must be off. Train to catch, you understand."

Jean, Remy wanted to say. Her name is Jean.

"Is dis what y' want?" he asked him. "T' return t' de West?"

Scott shrugged. "You were always jealous, my being able to get away from this mutant business. I have an obligation to my country, after all."

Remy half-laughed, disbelieving. "Is that what they put in your head?"

Scott did not know what he meant by that. So he changed the subject. "I should thank you for obtaining these bifocals. I don't suppose I could return to my service without them. But I do not care to keep in contact, please. I might go into law someday, and that might include chasing after you."

Remy grinned. "Scott Summers, y'll always be a stick."

"I suppose so. But at least in the West, I am needed." He then shook his head incredulously. "Who knew a mutant Southern rebel would be so well regarded in the North."

Remy LeBeau couldn't say. He wanted to apologize; wanted to tell Scott how he had played a starring role in this mess of a life, but Scott would never have believed him. So he watched as the soldier walked through the door, his shadow thrown against the far wall, fading along with his footfalls before disappearing altogether.

* * *

**30. Coward**

**Xavier's Mansion, Bayville, Massachusetts, 1871**

It came to pass, after Magneto withdrew his interest and Scott Summers was long settled in the West, that Jean Grey did come around finally and the thief was there to witness it.

Xavier nodded towards the parlor room when Remy called upon them that afternoon. He should not have been shocked by the news; of course, the Professor was very good at helping the telepath recover. But Remy had not come prepared to meet her again. What would she remember? What would she say when she saw him? He did not know what to do except to go and see her for himself.

He removed his hat just as the girl came into view. "Remy…?"Jean Grey was standing by the fireplace, stoking the flames. She was wearing a new dress, a pale shade of robin's egg blue, her red hair tied back behind her head. Immediately she turned to face him, her lovely mouth spreading into a sunny smile. It was as if nothing had changed. It was as if Scott Summers had never existed, had never entered her life at any point in time. She was never engaged, had never read his letters. It was as if Remy LeBeau finally stood a chance. And all the cards had fallen in his favor, but as he stood staring at this beautiful, smiling girl, it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he did not want to win this game after all. "Well, Remy? Have you only come to gawk at me?" She laughed, a bright sound. "Perhaps I'm so changed that you do not recognize me."

She offered her hand, which he did not take. When she finally realized his inaction, she dropped her arm, confusion blooming across her face.

Remy could only ask what had been on his mind all this time. "Do y' remember thet day when Magneto came?"

"Oh." She glanced away briefly; shook her head. "No. Not a thing." Jean smiled, pouring herself a cup from the teapot. "But Xavier has told me how valiant you were, saving me as I came hurtling down from the sky." Of course Xavier would, Remy thought bitterly; anything to deter her mind away from her bethrothed. "I have been so ungrateful to you, Remy," she went on to say. "You have been my dearest friend and I have never even thought to thank you for all you have done for me." All these favorable things said about him left a sour taste in his mouth. He was done hearing it.

Remy moved away from her and replaced the Stetson back on his head. "It's good t' see y', Jean. But I cain't stay."

"You're leaving?" He tried to ignore the disappointment etched in her face. "But you waited…"

"Too long." What he meant to say was that he had stayed too long to see that he was undeserving of her regard. "I need t' get on."

"But, Remy..." Her face strained with surprise, suddenly aware of his intent.

He would not meet her gaze. "I'll write." It was such a bad lie, made to be so much more because she believed it.

As he hurried out, he noticed Xavier sitting in the next room, but did not bother to call to him. The professor must have believed him a coward, knowing he would not stay. He wanted to yell at him. _How can you just sit there, allowing her to live this lie?_ They were no better than Magneto himself. But Remy knew things could never be as they once were, and the guilt was so vast and looming that he hooked a left and kept on walking, wanting to get away from that awful, wretched place.

He caught a freight and headed South. He never did write. He never did return.

* * *

_1. Love, Love, Love _Of Monsters and Men.

_2. Down in the Valley._ The Head and the Heart.

**End notes:** "A penchant for pretty things." I actually wrote this up in four days, having had a drought of inspiration until I happened upon BBC's latest version of _Greatest Expectations. _I was so very enthralled, I even downloaded it so that I might watch the ending fifty thousand times. What transpired involved an explanation...a much needed explanation as far as where Remy came in between Scott and Jean. And although I didn't actually write about Rogue, I tried to keep her in mind ;D

Now, I am trying to reach back into my memory for that one episode where Jean's powers spiral out of control, and Rogue has to zap her to get her to stop. In this story, the Phoenix powers arise from within her, fueled by her mental collapse following the realization that Scott does not know her anymore. Xavier is capable enough to tuck away this nasty little mishap forever. Mastermind plays a part in all of this, rewarded with Wanda's hand in marriage (which never follows through, thanks to St. John), and Magneto does this because...well, because he can. :[ Hope that all makes sense, but you can always tell me otherwise :)

**Responses to Reviews:**

Goldylokz: Yay you've come back! I'm with you about getting back to the present, but the past is still so very juicy too lol. Thank you for the review; I'll do my best to keep it coming!

ishandahalf: Thank you for agreeing with me about our favorite thief! I guess I'm not trying to hold back on the dark side of Remy. But I am also trying to show a more vulnerable side of him as well. He really messed this one up, and maybe that's why he is more hesitant to start anything with Rogue. Maybe ;D

zulka: I'm so glad you picked up on the whole "history repeating itself" theme I keep plugging into this story. I love it when readers catch these things :D I am saving Logan for the [best] parts, but we should be meeting up with him shortly. As for Remy, yes, it is all about drama with him. But that's why we love to hate him, and hate to love him. But I hope you stick around to learn more; you never know what will happen with the lot of them in this story!

**Next:** the telepath was lost, the rogue was found. And what will happen when Scott and Jean meet again? Stay tuned...


	21. TwentyOne

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for language, violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: I'm none too convinced about this chapter. However, it will do for the time being. Please R&R! Another summer already winding down -.-

* * *

**31. According to Scott**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

When I am dead, I pray that my body be cold, my scattered memories with it. My gravestone will read: Good riddance. Scott Summers was Good as Done with this World. Or maybe I will have to shorten it. Or buy a rather large tombstone.

In either case, I am not the same person. I know this only by what I am told, not by what I've done or what has been said about me. Though I sorely wish that were not the case.

So goes the memory of my parents. Of little Alex Summers, screaming as the officials carried him away from that horrible carriage accident. This is all I remember from my childhood. Dead parents. Separated from sibling. But I don't remember much of anything else.

To be sure, I don't remember much. I don't even remember colors besides red, but I guess that doesn't really matter. There could be worse things. I should know. Like a memory that doesn't make much sense at all.

Sometimes I think of it, and I don't really know why. I can hear her bright, undulating laughter as I run after her. I'm suddenly eight years old again, chasing a girl I don't recall, except that her hair was red. There's nothing much to the memory, I guess. On a particularly gloomy night on my watch, my thoughts would turn to her, but I can't place the scene, the person. Yet her laughter always finds me. Maybe if I ever do see her again, I will know her by her laugh. Maybe. I've lived too long to hope for these things to happen anyhow.

And then here I am, nearly thirty, most of life certainly spent. I do not know how my hands came to be so rough. The lines drew themselves deeper into my skin so that I was marked like a map, stretched from coast to coast. I was riding the rails and on horseback, living in the dunes and the badlands and marching my way to kingdom come, as the Buffalo soldiers once sang.

For a man who has lived by the law all his life, the West was wild country. You never know where the cities ended and the deserts began. All you knew was that there was constant dirt-taste in your mouth and dust in your eye and danger all around.

I had a long time coming. Four years with the United States Military, Ninth Cavalry, two as Marshal in the southwest corner of the States. No man's land populated by apprehensive, suspicious folks who could not quite accept a mutant for a lawman. No matter. It was a long two years, chasing that Brotherhood Gang only to have them suddenly slink away and come up from the other end by the time I could catch my breath. I was tired of the chase. And as much as I wanted, I could never quite get away from what was chasing me.

Two years after my time with the military, and I still awaken from the same awful dream. Daniels caught in a shower of arrows, dead on my account. My own arm still hurts, its ghost-wound never allowing me to forget.

**. . .**

It was getting around the end of April this year when I saw Remy LeBeau again, very suddenly and after a long string of my comings and goings. I had resigned as Marshal that same morning, and though no one blamed me and that my replacement was a sort of a dingle-head, I was downright done with the whole fiasco. It never suited me. The people never trusted me. Even now, I can feel their suspicion flicker at me. You ever know it? When you try your damn-hardest, and even that is not enough? Everywhere I turned, I came up short.

And that was how Remy found me, drinking the same bottle of turkey gin until the room became a slanted frame. I went to pour myself another, only to find someone had moved the gin away. Remy's hand on the bottleneck. Come to think of it, he was smiling, those red eyes of his glowing in the darkness.

"Get out," I snarled. I hadn't a clue how he had even got in.

"Good t' see y' too, _mon ami_." He slid my glass away and poured himself some gin. "Dis any good? Heard y' was holed up here de whole day already."

"Come to gloat?" I tried to shove away but any movement risked having the fire come up. I tried not to look sick, but I was worse than miserable at the moment.

"F' what? I didn't win anythin'." He swallowed the stuff and pursed his lips. "Tasty." After a minute, he said, "I heard y' up an' left de military. Took up residence in de West. Wanted t' see it myself."

"Yes, well, I'm glad to be done with it." All I could see was Daniels taking an arrow in the chest for me. A debt I can never repay. "Someone with a sense of humor stuck me with the Ninth Cavalry. I was the only white man in the regiment. After that stint with Magneto, I was returned to my unit." I was not sorry for it, though, not by a long shot. Those were some of my best years, by far. "There was this soldier, and damnit, Rems. He was my friend. He was my friend when I had first joined." Evan Daniels had helped to allay tensions between the others and me, many never having dealt with a mutant, let alone a white one. But then, in my last year with the military, we were attacked. "I tore off my bifocals and let the power drain me cold. I woke up the next morning and wished I hadn't. Daniels didn't make it. He was sixteen years old."

I had never told a soul about that day. Hearing myself say it made me shake, the old fear rising in my chest, my voice. That horrible day rushed through me and I broke into a cold sweat, remembering. Calling out, trying to find Daniels in the chaos of bloodshed and felled men. The arrow slicing into my arm, rearing me almost senseless with pain. And the power, instantaneous once those bifocals came off, pulsing through my eyes, ending it all and draining me until there was nothing left to give.

Magneto, somewhere, must be laughing.

"Sorry t' hear it, Marshal," Remy said, bringing me back from my temporary lapse. Maybe the alcohol was making me sentimental. But the thief seemed genuinely sad, which never amounts to any good. Even he didn't have the heart to cajole me about it.

"Don't call me Marshal." I felt the anger slosh upwards. "I'm nothing but a joke out here."

For a while we sat saying nothing, swallowing the turkey gin in slow, painful sips. Then Remy asked, "What're y' gonna do now?"

I was not sure. "Honest, I've always thought I would stay with the military. But then Daniels died and I didn't have my heart in it. He had given me this." I show Remy the picture. "It's the same girl you showed me before I returned to military duty." The girl, her colors masked in sepia. "He told me she has red hair."

Yes, Remy confirmed with a nod of his head, his eyes fixed on her portrait. And then after a spell: "She loved y'."

I flinched. That's what Daniels had said. "Who is she?" I gasped.

Remy did not respond immediately. He was watching my face carefully, as if deciding how to tell me. "Her name is Jean," he finally said.

**. . .**

There were so many letters. I let him sit with me until I come around, well enough to read them. And once I started, I couldn't stop. Riveted in this history unfolding before my eyes. History I never knew had taken place.

So many letters. They were a part of my things when I was taken by Magneto, who in turn gave them to Remy to destroy. "My dearest Scott." I look closer at those words, disbelieving that all of them belong to me. Her hand is met with skilled penmanship that wraps me in its loops and sprawling, curved alphabet. Her letters sweep me far from this desert, away from the new frontier, talking about a life I cannot begin to imagine. Mornings spent mending and sewing, helping her father prepare his lectures for the college, visiting the sick. The newest wave of disease among the soldiers despairs her. She sends ahead clothing, blankets, medicine, her picture. She cannot wait to see me again. Three years, she promises, in every letter. Forever, sincerely yours, she signs her name: _Jean_.

I dwelt on it, but I could not place her. As if she's been washed away, leaving no mark, no recollection on my behalf. But Remy could not have orchestrated such an elaborate lie. He has better things to do with his time.

When Daniels had asked me about her sometime after I had rejoined the army, I shrugged it off because I hadn't any idea what he was talking about. Evan had known me before I had been taken by Magneto, and he was flabbergasted, completely caught off-guard by how I seemed to have forgotten everything. And seeing her letters now, staring at her portrait with a different set of mind, I could understand how Daniels felt, how she ain't the kind of thing you forget.

I picked up a plain gold band. It was nothing much, really, except that upon closer inspection, I saw my initials carved on the inside. I have it here, safe in my knapsack. I don't dare take it out, afraid to have it spring some ghost-hand that might want my initials against her skin.

"Where has she gone?" I looked to Remy who suddenly had nothing to say. His hesitation alarms me. She's dead, I finally conclude. Such a waste. I feel a slight pang of pain in my chest for the girl I don't remember.

Remy stares at me hard, his ruby eyes calculating. And then he says, "She's still in New York. Still waiting f' y'."

Six years, I think to myself. Six years is a long time coming.

But how could I forget her? She ain't the kind of thing you forget.

And that's when Remy tells me. Things I don't understand. Magneto having my memory erased by some other mutant. Xavier distancing himself from me. Remy shoving Jean Grey's picture into my hands.

It occurs to me that perhaps that lone memory of me as a boy chasing some mystery girl is the last of what remains of her. Maybe the mutant who had done it had run out of time and couldn't quite replace that memory. Maybe he left it to further confuse me, to rip my mind to shreds trying to remember her. Or maybe he had done so on purpose, as if to push me headfirst into a rather deep well in order for me to get to the bottom of it.

Confusion looped itself in my mind and my thoughts swirl with denial, disgust, and somehow, with hope. My head was adamant that this is all wrong, that I don't even know of such a girl. But those letters, that ring…and Evan Daniels' strong and singular belief that I had me a sweetheart all told my heart something completely different.

I rubbed my eyes underneath my bifocals. I was so tired, so _damn_ tired with all these revelations. In my head, the color of her hair was brighter than ever. "What should I do?" I didn't really expect an answer, especially not from the likes of Remy LeBeau. So when he didn't say a word, I found myself wondering what he was thinking.

The fire popped and glowed as Remy turned the now-empty bottle on the table. His mouth bent into a frown as he shot me a look that sent me on a train back to Bayville.

**. . .**

Massachusetts had seen the last cold remains of a long winter cling to its counties. Some patches of snow had recently fallen when I arrived, a bit unprepared with my thin coat and military cap. But I kept telling myself I wasn't to stay long.

Charles Xavier lived in upstate Massachusetts, out by the Eastern Coast which bordered along the neighboring states. I had traveled there only a few times, from the patches of memory I still had. We had lost communication since.

The mansion itself was still very pristine with its high windows and wrap-around porch. The doorbell was a single, simple chime. These things had not changed.

And the professor himself had not aged. He let me in, allowed himself a smile, observed that I had grown taller, a mustache. We had not seen each other for a long time.

I did not mention Jean Grey. I stoked the fireplace and made us tea. I pretended not to know about the girl he supposedly kept away from me. And I suppose I was angry at one point in time, but standing in his parlor six years later, I felt the old, tired ache of finally returning home to a place I didn't belong.

"I have hurt you," he suddenly said, a studied look to his face. Perhaps he had always known I would return.

I said, "So it's true." In my head, I thought: _Jean Grey_. And he nodded to confirm it. "Why'd you do it?" Not to accuse, no; more out of curiosity than anything. He had pushed me away at my most vulnerable. I mistook it for something petty, selfish; yet here, seeing him in his wheelchair after all those years in the West, I felt almost pity for the professor.

"She was my student." It was very simple, to be told. If he lost her, what would he have? I could almost see her now, grown yet still young, smart and capable. She would be a thing to lose, and this would be a very empty house indeed.

So I let the matter rest. I said, "If you want me gone, I will go. I only came to find out if it's all true. I won't see her and there is nothing left for me here. I have taken up residence in the West, anyway. I'm ready to call it home."

_No_. His voice, in my head, a flat, almost beseeching plea. _There is something I've been meaning to do_.  
We had talked about it before. He was looking to find mutants, to help them have a safe place to turn. To teach them that powers are gifts, and to use them to help humans.

And my first assignment was the Rogue.

**. . .**

Back in these woods, I can hardly keep up. She has seen the light of his cigarette, puffing mysteriously in the lonely darkness of these trees. I think for a second how her feet are so nimble, so accustomed to this unforgiving terrain. My boots strain despite their worn leather. I want her back by my side, for comfort perhaps, but more because I do want her to go to him.

It's selfish, I know, being that he was her savior back in the South, where they lynch once provoked. She owes him her life; she holds him in such high regard that I hardly compare.

I wonder how it would be if the situation were switched somehow, if I had been the one to find her first.

Remy LeBeau emerges then, and I know she's a goner.

I know him by his cigarettes. Lucky Strikes? I can't recall. His face is haggard, the lonely red of his eye glimmering in the gloom. He opens his arms to her and she does not hesitate to move in. Almost instantly, he is a different man. The look on his face, the way he holds her to him, like he thought her dead or something worse. Is it real? No matter: there's nothing I can do now.

But then when he sees me, something in him changes. He gives me that look, the same one when I asked him about Jean Grey. And it's almost automatic, the way he shifts his gaze and I follow it. Follow it to someone who's watching above us through the trees.

My feet in their boots take on a life of their own. Remy begins to call me back, but I'm too far-gone to listen. The ground is slippery from the recent rain; I have to hold out my arms to climb up to where she stands waiting. Still waiting. After all this time.

I remove my military cap. It's terribly damp in these woods, heavy with fog after the rain. My boots are wet, feet cold, my hands tremble as if I've been deprived of drink. Somehow, I am reminded of the Confederates who followed Major Lee out of Virginia, some deserting as they left in a hurried, desperate rush to escape. Somehow, I know the same fate awaits me. But I can't go back; I've come much too far to leave.

For a minute, I just stand there, frozen to the ground. Surprise rendering my mind blank.

_She looks just like her picture._

"I'm sorry, miss." The apology tumbles out of me, almost immediately. "I thought…" I cough, realizing I'm stammering. "I thought you were someone I knew." How can I not remember her? How can I not know her now, if I knew her ever?

Retreat. Raise that white flag and call it quits. I turn, and then, suddenly, she says my name.

"Scott?" I look back at her. Her red hair is bright despite the darkness. "It is you, isn't it?" My heart is pounding in my chest as I nod. "I've read Remy's mind to know as much." Deep inside me, something familiar blooms in my chest. _She knows me. _I want to take it and run to her; I'm undulated by a million things I've always wanted to tell her. I almost smile. I almost laugh; have I got a _story_, I want to tell her: one day, I had proposed. And miraculously, you said yes. It took a friend to die, and six years with the government but here I am. All of this, and it's brought me back to you.

But then she shakes her head, and just like that, this fantasy of mine absquatulates into thin air.

"Nothing. Not a single thing," I hear her say. "Remy LeBeau insists you…" She pauses, thoroughly confused. "But I don't know you at all." Her hands go to her face. She is horrified. Her eyes do not register familiarity. And as I approach, she takes a few steps back. Fear rising in her face.

The diamond on her finger catches my attention. I am dead-wrong about this girl: my own ring is plain. Retreating suddenly becomes vital, inevitable.

"I am to marry," she says. "I love him," she says. I try not to look at her, beating my own emotions back with all the energy I can muster. But I cannot help feeling that I had been betrayed, that I was placed in a position to believe this girl— this beautiful, bright-eyed girl—had said yes. To me.

And then I know it; I know it just as I turn away. I've wanted this—wanted not just her, no, but _somebody_. Anybody, to come back for. It's that hope that drove me across the country, had me growing fond of Rogue. That hope that someone might want me too. And it sickens me, how I've allowed Remy to feed me these stories until I became genuinely, irrevocably in love with a girl I don't even know. Who doesn't even know me.

And it's as though I'd finally hit rock-bottom after being pushed off a ledge. _Wake up, idiot. _I might have kissed her and held her hands and told her I loved her, or maybe I never did any of those things. Is this what Remy has done to us? What we have done to ourselves? I wish I never saw her. I wish I never did believe him. I wish he never found me that day in my room, drinking myself to oblivion and desperate for a friendly face. I wish he had never shown me her picture or that gingersnap box filled with letters I don't remember writing. A scam, a scandal. I hate him all over again.

My legs have a mind of their own, and I'm running to get the hell out of there, if only to leave those stillborn hopes behind me.

Painfully, the memory of the little girl with the blazing red hair sears through my mind. Her bright laughter bores into my head like a sharp spoke, and I veer off the ledge, stumbling in my hurry to get away.

And what exactly could I expect? The hot anger sparks tears in my eyes. Six years is a long time to be away. But she ain't the kind of thing you forget.

The thought propels me forward. Retreat, I keep thinking, down the hill, where Remy and Rogue are waiting.

I see him first and I lose it. My rage, driving a fist into his face. Remy stumbles backwards, falling hard because he hadn't expected it. His hat flies off with the impact. Rogue cries out; dives down beside him, protecting him. From me.

"You bastard!" The words rip out of me and look past Rogue to where Remy's trying to get back on his feet. "You fucking bastard!"

Remy, gingerly holding a hand to his face, murmurs, "Guess she didn't come 'round after all."

"Sure as hell she didn't." My voice breaking, spitting out such fiery words. "All this time, you had me believing she was mine. Bullshit." My tone startles me, but I can't help it. Without saying much, she had dashed my hopes and pinned me in a place where I couldn't lie to myself. "She is marrying someone else. She doesn't know me at all. She never did. None of it was ever real."

"I ain't a liar," Remy rattles quietly. He hangs his head, and Rogue goes to hold him. Somehow, this grinds into me. _Not you too_, I want to say. "You're worse off, Rogue. It's obvious you belong to him. A pet, nothing more."

Something vicious lights her eyes. "Yah wanna say that again, Marshal?" She's a rogue all right. And despite my anger, my despair, I have to smirk.

"One in the same; I should've known. Xavier was wrong. You'd never come along. You wouldn't know safety if it came up and bit you."

"Well, yah sure ain't it, Summers. I'd rather be taken by the Assassins than run along with you." And I hate to admit it, but she's got a point there.

I look past her, where Remy sits, his eyes downcast. "Have to say, LeBeau, you had me for awhile. Guess the ruse is up. Take it you're happy now that you've had me strung along in your little game?" He doesn't pipe up, and I'm glad of it. My hand hurts where it's connected with his face. My chest heaves and I try to make a point of it, try to stick it to Remy while he's not fighting back, but then I stop, long enough to notice that we've got ourselves an audience.

Jean Grey has made it down, stopping just at the foot of the hill, one hand resting on a nearby tree to steady her. She doesn't move once she's seen me staring. Her round, hollow eyes are sad.

Immediately, I step away, feeling just like a child who's been caught doing something very bad. She doesn't say anything, only watches us in her removed silence. It all but confirms it and my chest hurts now for a different reason. Reminding me that she does not know me at all.

I'm making things all-overish. I have shown that uglier side, the part of me that hates who I am and where I've been, what I've seen and what I've done. Daniels' last wish: to have me return to my sweetheart. What would he think now? All those wasted nights outside the campfire, trying to convince me when she doesn't even exist.

So I withdraw. Follow the stars and go back the way I came. I will return empty-handed, or maybe I will not return at all. Xavier does not have to know about Rogue or Remy for a time.

And it disgusts me, how long I've been caught up by the very notion of a love that I can't remember. Because she ain't the kind of thing you forget.

* * *

**32. The One He Chose**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

Rogue's hold around Remy did not lessen any. Not until Scott Summers had long left them, his figure retreating into the din of the forest, did she finally let go of him, sprawled across the sodden floor, too stunned to even move.

"There now," she whispered, retrieving his cowboy hat and replacing it on his head. "He's gone. Rest easy."

The look on Remy's face alarmed her. He was stricken, as though his very being had been beaten, and though Scott had only hit him once, the force had been a powerful one. Already she could see that Remy's right eye had begun to swell shut.

Perhaps he had noticed Rogue's face twist into unspoken anguish, for Remy suddenly smirked, trying to be reassuring for the both of them.

"Oh, come on, Rogue. It's not as if y' ain't seen me hurt before." And then he took her gloved hand in his, feigning seriousness. "But f' now on, we've got t' stop meetin' like dis."

She smiled then, relieved to see the old Remy hadn't changed a bit. She worked her arms around him, falling against his chest, and resumed her place beside him. As though it didn't matter. How suddenly, the space between them narrowed until it just about disappeared altogether. A few months ago, she would have been appalled, the very idea of touching him. His mere touch sent her spiraling backwards, desperate to regain the void between them. But now, holding him, she clung to Remy as though she were drowning. He was, indelibly, her only means of survival.

That's when she noticed the young lady, standing just a few feet from where Rogue and Remy sat holding each other. Her hair was red, her eyes a steady green. Rogue couldn't make out the color of her dress, but she could see how damp and distressed it was, rendered to rags by the recent rain. And then it dawned on her: Remy's Northern gal. This must be the coveted Jean Grey of Annadale-on-Hudson. There was no mistaking her likeness from the newspaper.

They locked gazes almost instantly. Jean mouthed, _Rogue_. As if she had come to see her for herself. There was a knowing look in her face as she watched them from a distance, and then, quietly, she turned away, raising her skirts to keep from dragging in the mud. Her shoulders hunched, her hair a tangled mess down her back, she looked as though she had lost something she could never retrieve. She had come for him, Rogue vaguely realized, burying her face deeper into Remy's shoulder. Her next thought had her paralyzed: _he had not wanted her after all_. If Remy indeed had to choose, he had made his decision very clear.

It was a long time before he released her. And when he took her hand and said, Let's move on out, Rogue, she did not hesitate to go with him.

* * *

**33. Proposal**

**Grey Estate, Annadale-on-Hudson, New York, 1871.**

It's late afternoon and Scott Summers has found himself back on the path that leads through the gate towards the rear of her estate. Those wretched azeleas of her mother's greet him as he lets himself through the expanse. A hot air's blowing, and his military jacket immediately becomes stifling. There isn't much time; he is to report to the deployment trains in two hours. Their time together has dwindled into mere minutes. And what had seemed like a good idea when he decided to join the military has become the boiling point of contention between him and Jean. She was against the idea from the very start. She fought him all the way to the recruitment center, and when he signed the papers she walked out on him. Even now, she was not entirely convinced. Lie low for awhile, he had told her. Magneto can't follow me out West. I will send for you in three years. And perhaps he had done it for her honor, to appease her parents and earn himself a name, but Scott knew she did not care for any of that. In the end, she would have loved him all the same.

That is what drives him across the grass, to their favorite tree tucked away from the rest of the estate. He finds her asleep under its shade, wearing an olive dress that is massive in its folds of lace and calico. Scott takes a second, wanting to keep this memory of her alive for just a moment longer, before dropping his knapsack and stretching out beside her.

Thinking like a soldier, acutely aware that precious seconds are ticking away, threatening to collapse this dream before it could ever begin, he presses his hand to hers. And it is imperative that she see him this one last time before he leaves altogether.

Then she rouses, and the relief breaks through him, cracking like ice under pressure. Her first reaction is surprise in finding someone else nearby, but then she recognizes him and settles back against the grass, a smile dappling her lips.

"Scott," she says imperviously, fitting herself to him, an arm behind his head, "your thoughts woke me."

Somehow, the world seems almost quiet as Scott struggles with what to say. And just when the silence becomes too much, when his time is all but up, her eyes grow large and suddenly she's up on one arm, staring at him and knowing what he will say.

Her smile widens, giving him the courage to continue. "Marry me, Jean," he says.

And time is suspended, as if they're caught between pendulum swings as she's looking at him, her arms sliding around him, her lips finding his.

How simple, how truly wonderful, that she says yes.

* * *

**34. Boston Rail**

**New York, 1877**

Scott Summers made it to the station before the final warning whistle. It was raining again, a light, hazy morning to greet him back to the North.

Once inside, he fumbled with his military cap, that last token of a life out West. What remained from that life was he himself—his sunburned face, his coarse hands fitted with leather gloves. He walked between the booths, settling for peanuts from a butch, trying to find an open seat. And then something caught his eye and he could not quite tear himself away.

She was alone, sitting by the window so as to observe the bustling of people below her. He had been so lost in his watching her that he hardly noticed other passengers trying to get around him.

In the morning light, her beauty was a thing to see. Her red hair was tucked carefully beneath a dark bonnet, tied under her chin in a precise bow. She was slight of frame, her face perfectly angled and proportioned. Ironic how he had promised himself earlier that he would put last night behind him. No more chasing a singular memory, no more trying to piece together his past when it refused completion. No, he couldn't live his life like that. He had no choice but to move on.

Seeing her again, it was as if she had appeared just to challenge him. Putting it behind him would be harder than he thought.

And as if she had overheard the prattling of his mind, her head turned around and caught sight of him standing there with his cap in his hands. Her fair face gave way to a delicate pink flush in her cheeks—she had recognized the dapper man in his faded military blues.

"Scott Summers." She smiled, the flush deepening a little.

"Miss Grey," he gently acknowledged with a nod of his head, meaning to move away. But then he remembered how she had stood staring at him back in the woods, unable to tear herself away as he took out his frustration and anger on Remy. "I should apologize; I had left your company so abruptly…" He stopped short. He saw that she was still smiling.

She nodded. "Down in that valley, you were fighting with Remy. I couldn't help overhearing some of it."

A warm, disappointed flush overcame him. "I'm sorry you did." He shook his head. "I'm sorry I said it."

"You were angry."

"That's no excuse." She gazed at him curiously. He was the first to turn away.

Jean said, "To think, I came all this way for a reason to change my mind…suppose I might've liked to pop him one myself." This earned her a small smile from Scott. "It is funny though, running into you again." She sat back, trying for a lighter topic. "Are you from the North too?"

Scott smiled. "Originally. I have business in Bayville."

Her eyes lit up. "As do I."

Perhaps it was the way she looked at him—those kind eyes, her inviting smile—which made him bold, strangers that they were.

"May I…join you?"

How simple, how truly wonderful, that she said yes.

* * *

**35. Reroute**

**Appalachian Trail, 1877**

The bridge was glowing tonight. Logan had tried to skirt the Appalachias, but Anna Marie's scent was so strong here. He had no choice but to venture deeper into those woods in which he had had such a bad history. His guilt embedded in the abandoned town, the naked forest, the blunt, heavy scent of blood by the river. It rattled him, how Anna Marie would end up where he had left off.

From his position, he could see that McCoy's lamplights were lit. The doctor was in. Logan vaguely hoped he would not meet him tonight. And then he caught whiff of a familiar scent and immediately knew there were worse things in these woods tonight.

"Ironic finding you here, the last place I'd seen you. Reckon the girl killed herself? That weakling. It was bound to happen."

Logan sneered at the shadows. "Sabretooth." Creed drew forward then, towering in his full height, threatening in his long overcoat and dumpy cowboy hat.

"It smells a lot like the wolf-girl died yesterday, don't it?" He grinned cruelly. "But you're not a nostalgic, Wolverine. We are an unforgiving breed, you and me."

The claws had come out, and Logan held them at an angle for Sabretooth to see. "There a reason you haven't torn into me yet?"

"Oh, I'm tempted, honest. But there are more urgent matters at the present." He drew back, suddenly observant. "You're looking for someone. Why else surface after so long? The Tracker has got an agenda."

Not good, Logan thought. If Sabretooth knew who he was looking for…"You stay away from her," Logan warned through set teeth.

"The Rogue Murderer, of course. But you, Wolverine, know her…personally. She's Logan's Kin," he teased.

That nearly tore him to pieces. "Bastard!" But then some new, familiar scent in Sabretooth's coat pocket distracted him. And Creed knew it; he laughed so hard, it hurt Logan's ears. He pulled out the piece of cloth and held it out to Wolverine. The smell. Logan's eyes widened. The last piece of the puzzle.

"His name is Remy LeBeau," Creed said without missing a beat. "She's traveling with him, Wolverine. She has never left his side. He is working for us, since you left us behind." There was a note of betrayal, of disappointment evident in his voice.

"She ain't safe," Logan growled.

"No, she's not," Creed agreed. "So what are you waiting for? Gonna sit around and watch? He'll turn her over to Magneto and then what will you do?"

Logan hadn't a clue, but he knew he must do something. So he fell away, tentatively watching as Sabretooth watched him, and then he bounded forward, following this latest scent, finally seeing the path clearly laid out before him. Sabretooth's laughter rang in the distance.

"Swing hard and kill him!" he shouted after him, a bit too happily. Logan could only hope that he wasn't too late.

* * *

**Endnotes:**

In the Evo Series, I found Rogue's attachment to Scott certainly annoying. So I turned it around in this fic and had Scott wondering after her for once. He was so caught up with Jean, he always overlooked the girl who was watching him from a distance. Not that I wanted him to notice, but still. Unrequited love is what we're all familiar with.

Personally, I found my JeanxScott arc sorta overbearing. Too many things happened. Too many things to explain. I wanted to include a lot, like Scott's experience as a Buffalo Soldier, his friendship with Evan Daniels, his first-hand account of watching Evan die. But I found that it was all very meticulous and heavy, and I believe if I do write something else about Scott and Jean, it will have to be its own story. That I can look forward to. So, I decided to leave it very open-ended, because we can all hope for a happy ending :D

But enough about that. Unto my wonderful reviewers:

ishandahalf: Yes, we have to keep Remy interesting with all the layers and drama and baggage. Thank you for your undying support through it all! We will soon make out with Rogue and Remy to the West or South or somewhere that Logan might not find. But that's to be seen ;D

KitChi: I'm so happy you found my story! And I'm sorry that I can't promise to update as fast as I'd like, but I can promise that there are more twists to this story to come! Thank you for your review!

zulka: Remy's confounded, surely. He thought he wanted Jean, always wanted Jean, but when he finally got her to himself, he could only think of Rogue. And a good thing too, because Scott's back in the picture *sigh* Too be honest, I never did like Jean and Scott in the Evo Series but I did not like them with other people either. So, to put it plainly, I wanted to do this couple justice for once. And though they are still strangers at the end of this chapter, who knows? It might just work out between them :D But again, that's another story in itself.

Guest: No problem, thanks for letting me know you're reading it! I always love me a review. I think the fact that Jean merely saw Scott was not enough to ignite the Phoenix again, especially since she cannot associate such strong feelings as she did when she knew him. Erasing her mind of Scott was to ensure that would not happen again. Remy was hoping that them meeting each other would rouse those memories on Jean's part, fill in those gaps, and accept Scott as her fiancé once more. But as it were, nothing happened. And Scott could only react as though he had been snubbed. But there is hope for Jean and Scott, and Remy and Rogue too. But who's to say when/if Logan catches up to them?

Thank you all for reading and staying true to this story! I love you all!

Up Next: In which there is Rogue and Remy. What will come of their relationship, fast unfolding, developing into something more? Will Logan have his say before the day is done? Or will it all unravel, just as soon as it begins?

Something sinister comes this way. Stay tuned! And while you're at it, please review!


	22. Twenty Two

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: It's October again, which is quite appropriate for the backdrop of where we last left our favorite duo. Don't ask me why, but Fall has always felt romantic to me. The changing seasons into colder weather. And things are certainly about to turn colder around here…

* * *

**Part Six: Interim**

**Outskirts of New York, 1877**

They wandered back to Paul's, having nowhere else to go. They found the place as they had left it, without a sign of life in it. The bodies, if there had been any, had since been removed, the place left nearly spotless. The house was stripped, its contents searched. Paul, in life and in death, never turned up.

"Thet's de t'ing 'bout assassins," Remy pointed out stolidly. "Dey never leave a trace."

It was Rogue who thought it best to stay. The days were shortening severely, the weather turning colder. Soon snow would light the ground and they would have no choice but to freeze.

It was not a bad place. Paul had not stocked the cupboards, but there was a pantry filled with jams and canned vegetables, prepared in the expectation of a harsh winter. Rogue felt a twinge of regret. Paul's family, as absent as he was. She closed the cupboard and checked the well out back for clean water.

When that was done, Rogue went back inside and found the last man she ever trusted standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arm reaching out, feeling the broken panels in the wall. Scott's contribution to the wreckage. Rogue did not know the Marshal's powers, but standing in the shards, it was hard not to imagine its magnitude. Those red bifocals truly did hide something mighty powerful.

"It's hard to say if they'll be back." Remy stood to his full height, dusting off his hands. Rogue grimaced at the sight of his black eye. This too was a regrettable measure of Scott's power. Remy saw her face crinkle with disgust and smirked. "C'mon, beb. Is it so bad?"

"Yah know it is," she spat, moving away while trying to decide what to do about it.

She had it in her to find some sort of treatment for his blackened eye. He didn't think much of it until she returned from the town with a thick cut of cold meat and promptly made him put it on his eye. "We'll cook it after," she told him flatly before he had a chance to complain that she had slipped out alone.

So that evening, with her alternating washing her hands and soaking bandages in water while Remy held the hunk of meat against his swollen face, they sat together in a companionable silence. He watched as she checked on his old wounds—that bad head gash which the Scarlet Witch had laughed off as a nick, the ghost-bite in his hand with its freshly removed sutures—both nearly healed, no longer requiring bandages. But she was at a loss about what to do about that eye besides the meat. After all, Logan had never bruised.

Rogue had not realized how close they were sitting—their foreheads nearly touching—when she caught Remy's hesitant gaze, as if it had finally dawned on him that she was not wearing her gloves.

"Sorry," she immediately apologized. He felt a flash of shame sear into him. Had it been so obvious, being wary of her powers? "Ah'll be careful." She took away the meat and inwardly flinched upon seeing his blackened eye. "Maybe when it snows Ah could get it around that eye."

Remy did not tell her this, but something small and hopeful rose in his chest as he felt her face near his. How terribly he wanted her in this moment. Her gloves off, her lips inches from his. Could she know? Could she possibly feel the same? Rogue suddenly went and washed her hands again, drying them thoroughly. A blush had risen in her face. He knew then, clear as day, she had wanted him too. Remy watched her put her gloves back on, languishing in his own dismal silence.

**. . . **

There was only one bed. They both seemed to think it, but only Rogue was the first to mention it.

"Ah don't mind if we share it," she told him directly. It was his turn to look sheepish. "It's not lahke we haven't been sharin' 'em."

"_Mais_, thet's when we had no choice," Remy said, but that was not true. He could've taken the extra time to hunt down a separate place to sleep. Why was he being so uncomfortable anyway?

Rogue did not seem to notice, as she proceeded to take off her boots and turn down the covers. "Ah saw a place up the road; they sell dodgers. I aim to get some, maybe bargain for a few more." She leaned over and lit the lamp by the window. Instantly, the room came alive, its glow snuffing out the darkness." It's a good enough find," she told him. "We can look at a map in the morning."

And then she slipped into bed fully clothed, which had always boggled Remy. He kept on his trench coat and settled down next to her. He couldn't help wondering if he belonged there, by her side.

"What if y' could touch?" He asked her suddenly. She got up on her elbows, throwing a brief glance at him over her shoulder.

"What for?" She bristled at the very thought, he could tell, though she tried her best not to seem bothered. "And Ah cain't anyhow, so what difference does it make?" Her tone was hostile, wanting him to drop it.

He shook his head. "Y' power. What if y' could control it?"

"Well, Ah don't see how. It's not lahke Ah can just turn it off." He was crossing a line, her gaze told him as much.

"But it must work thet way, 'else I wouldn't be able t' control mine. We could make our powers work f' us, _chere_."

Rogue rolled over to her side, her head propped up in one hand. She looked at him for a very long time, as if she were trying to piece together what he was saying.

"Do yah want tah touch me?" she finally asked him. She did not sound so eager. She never did like him telling her what to do.

Slowly, he nodded. He felt ashamed, admitting it to her. "More than anything," he replied, his breath catching because he had never been so honest in his life. How did he come to feel this way anyhow? How did he become so absorbed with her presence, so aware of her beside him? A part of him hoped to overcome all that. Maybe he could teach her to control her powers. Maybe, someday, she could touch him for real.

Rogue did not reply immediately. "When Ah touch 'em, Ah know their thoughts, and their memories stay with me." Her voice was hollow, the emptiness palpable.

Remy opened his mouth. He meant to comfort her, to tell her this fear was baseless, but then he got to thinking. What would she see if she suddenly absorbed him? She would know his lies, his fabricated stories. That Logan was alive and that he hadn't told her the truth, knowing about Xavier all along. That he personally escorted St. John Allerdyce to Australia and wedged himself between Jean and Scott, drove Kitty and Piotr apart for the sake of learning the whereabouts of Logan's kin. He had done all these things and never paid the price for such damages. But there were so many. Her love was untainted, unrestrained. And here he was, loaded with reservations and ulterior motives too many to count. McCoy was right to warn her. There could be no trusting this thief, this liar.

And when she finds out about Magneto, how she was sought for her mutant powers, that she first caught his interest when she killed those people back in Caldecott…he wasn't sure what she would do. But he was certain that she would leave.

Remy knew he could not afford it; Rogue should not find out.

**. . .**

He awoke very much alone the next morning. No note, nothing. He snapped up, snatching the covers off. She must have gone out early. His head whirled, wondering where she could've gone. He had frightened her off, he realized. All this talk of touching and controlling powers…what a foolish thing to say. She couldn't trust him anyway, much less allow him to touch her…

He had pulled on his trench coat while rushing down the stairs, all the while hoping she hadn't gotten far, when the front door opened, and Rogue stepped inside, shaking the rain from her hood.

"You're up?" she asked, sounding surprised. Remy was so taken aback that he could only watch her slip out of her coat and hang it by the fire. "It's blistering out there, by the way." She took out a paper bag of sweet-smelling dodgers, miraculously dry from her pocket, and held it out to him. "Breakfast." For a split-second, he thought back to the first morning they spent together by the banks before hopping the New York Line in Alabama; he had offered her dodgers as well. He couldn't see a thing in her then.

"Y' couldn't wake me? Y' couldn't tell me where y' gone?" His surprise had quickly warped into anger. A gut reaction. How could she just leave like that? He could have sworn his heart had been on the floor just a minute ago, and she had walked all over it.

"Hell, Rems. Listen tah yourself. Ah never thought yah'd be so horns and rattles with mah coming an' going." She jiggled the bag and tossed it on the table. "Ah told yah Ah wanted dodgers. So Ah went an' got 'em." She shook her head, running her hands through her auburn locks. Noticing that he hadn't moved, she turned back towards him questioningly.

"At six in de morning?" He stared at her doubtfully. "Sun's not e'en up."

"Now yah sound lahke me." She cocked her head to one side. "Did yah think Ah'd run away?"

That was exactly what he had thought, but he would die before admitting it. "Why are y' doin' dis?" he asked her instead. "All o' this." He gestured at his face, the food. "Puttin' y'self in danger. Keepin' me f' company."

Her look turned wistful and she shrugged. "Because yah would've done it for me." She said this as if he should have known it by now. And then she let out a breathy laugh, suddenly playful. "An' we both know yah're useless raht now."

"Thet's not fair. I juss woke up." But Remy was smiling. Relieved. He had always liked this side of Rogue. She could be very attractive when she knew what she wanted.

"All right, then where are we? Where are we, Mister LeBeau?" She challenged him, her chin raised slightly while sizing him up.

He grinned. "I'm w' y'."

She stepped away, her eyes glowering at him. "Coffee. We need coffee," she said decidedly, and walked away to find some. He hadn't a doubt she would.

* * *

Rogue walked every morning down the same path, following the naked trees into town. She had seen the big orange and white tent pitched against the gray sky a number of times during her passes through town. It had become something to look forward to seeing everyday. She vaguely remembered Logan musing back in Caldecott that the circus was coming to Jackson in the Fall, and had asked if she wanted to go. Staring at it now, stark and garish against the boring backdrop of a town, Rogue paused, marveling at the sight.

While Remy rested back at Paul's, Rogue went to purchase goods, trading her meager earnings from her dancing stint for supplies. The town was an isolated one, just right for someone who didn't need the attention. She bought cloth bandages, hardy soap, and chicken stock from the Grocer, dodgers from the local bakery. Sometimes they would ask after her, sometimes they did not. Rogue was polite and kept her conversations small, insignificant.

Everyday, she took a few minutes to stop and stare at the circus tent. There would be animals surely. By the fourth day, she wanted to go see it before it moved on. Maybe Remy would like to see it too.

The days went by and Remy's eye was beginning to look better. The seasons changed, Fall stealing away as winter swept eagerly into Philadelphia. Rogue went to town and bought a coat, laced with feather down. She wore this over her green dress, the one she acquired from Jubilation. She always thought of Jubilation nowadays. How wise she could be, where Remy was concerned.

A shipment of chicory coffee had made it to the dry goods store. Rogue had this wrapped up in brown paper, and was carrying it under her arm when she spotted the tent looming in the distance. It seemed a gaudy trick, a garish display in the rather gray town of Pickwick. Rogue rummaged through her coat pocket and brought out her change. Today, Rogue went to the circus. And it was there she saw the freak show.

The tent was beginning to be taken down, bar by bar, and she saw that the animals were in pens—great, terrifying animals she never knew existed.

An eagle it cost. Rogue had to burrow deep into her coat pocket for the coin.

The freak show, as it turned out, was but one man, sitting on a stool behind a glass. Rogue read the inscription above his stand: "The Mysterious Nightcrawler." She peered in carefully and saw that he was reading a book.

It took the man a few minutes to notice her standing with her face pressed up against the glass, staring. He seemed a little taken aback, but put his book away and stood up.

"Behold! I am the Mysterious Nightcrawler!" He reared his hands, each equipped with three rather large appendages, and waved his pointed tail. He was a dark shade of…blue, Rogue decided, and not the sickly blue that mercurial overdose can give a person. He was a healthy, bold blue, like the deepest shade of the ocean. His eyes were gold and snakelike but not malicious. In fact, his whole act was sort of pathetic. He was not so convincing as the Mysterious Nightcrawler.

Perhaps he could sense his appearance did not impressed her; the Nightcrawler sat himself back upon the stool and then stared at her in such a way that she felt almost as if the situation were reversed and she were in the pen while he looked in. Reckon she didn't like it so much.

And then a violent crash of something behind her as the scene erupted into chaos.

"Look out!" Someone yelled from above her. And Rogue looked up, just in time to see the metal bar drop a second before she felt arms pull her away. The smoke was so thick, the smell searing through her senses, setting her nostrils on fire. She suddenly disappeared, reappearing in a cloud of foul smoke. Rogue realized the arms around her belonged to the Mysterious Nightcrawler, looking a little surprised himself.

Rogue screamed; she couldn't help it. It took her a moment to realize Nightcrawler had joined in, yelling at the top of his lungs. It was all so bizzare that she broke off while he continued to yell. A moment passed and all was quiet again. His lips curled into a impish, awkward smile. Rogue took off running hard, stumbling backwards, her breath catching. He did not try to follow. But she didn't stop until she made it back to Paul's, pausing at the well to gather her senses. And that was when she realized her arms were empty. She had dropped the coffee back at the circus.

* * *

It wasn't worth it. Rogue had decided to leave it; there was nothing else to it. She would suffer that loss and move on. It was what she always did.

Except, the next time she set out for town, she found someone waiting for her in the path. The orange big top remained standing, triumphant to the end. The Nightcrawler said, "I didn't think you'd be so predictable, coming the same way you did last." He was dressed in black pants with pinstripes, red suspenders peeking out underneath a rather large trench coat. He wore no shoes or gloves, but had a black bowler hat with a white flower upon his head. "Left something last time you were here." He held out the tin of coffee. Remy's favorite.

She took it before he could change his mind. The Nightcrawler must have noticed the hasty, almost desperate sort of way she grabbed for it. He was smiling at her, his eyes dancing with laughter.

"How'd yah know Ah take this path tah town?" she demanded.

Nightcrawler's smile did not lessen any. "Oh, I didn't. Just had a good feeling, seeing as you pass here all the time."

Rogue narrowed her eyes. "Yah been spyin' on me?"

Nightcrawler shook his head. "No. It's vhat I heard."

Turning the can in hands, Rogue suddenly felt ashamed and couldn't for the life of her meet his gaze. "Ah'm sorry Ah screamed," she said, after a time.

"Well, that's usually people's first reaction," he told her, sounding amused. His mouth curled into a smile and Rogue noticed the sharp incisors of his grin. This should have been her cue to make a run for it before he realized she meant to cut loose, but walking away did not make him quit watching after her.

"Why'd yah do it?" Rogue halted, the paper bag bearing dodgers in her right hand, her other arm around Remy's coffee. "Why'd yah save me?"

The Nightcrawler let out an incredulous laugh. And when he saw that she was serious, he gave his shoulders a shrug. "Vhy does the sun rise? Vhy is your front hair white? Vhy am I blue and fuzzy?" When she hesitated to respond, he grabbed her sleeve and made her gloved hand stroke his. Rogue was so startled, she didn't have time to resist. "See? Fuzzy," he confirmed most decidedly, proud even. "Because I could," he said with a note of finality, releasing her arm. "That and because you intrigue me." She didn't know what to say to that, her mind still reeling from the fact that he had done the unthinkable. What would he say if he had known he had just brushed death with a single touch? His ignorance disgusted her.

"You asked v_hy_. Not _how_. As if you already knew that answer." He was staring at her so intently that Rogue could only look away. "I might be a Nightcrawler to these people," he thumbed the circus folk behind him, "but you know exactly vhat I am."

The old, familiar terror tapped against her heart and Rogue slid a hand to her neck, half-expecting a noose to yank at her throat.

"Ve all have something to hide. And those of us who can afford it vould rather keep it secret." He shrugged again. "My name is Kurt Wagner." he said cheerily and stuck out a hand. Rogue did not take it.

He was immediately slighted. "Vhat? I don't have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

Rogue shrugged, drawing away from the Nightcrawler. "Nobody knows mah name," she told him pointedly. "It's been that way for awhile now."

"Suppose you're traveling alone then?" He gazed at her knowingly. "You buy a lot of coffee for just yourself."

Rogue felt the cold sweat start at her forehead. "It's for a friend," she admitted reluctantly.

"Ah, so the girl has friends," he nodded approvingly. "Much more than vhat I've got here."

"Balderdash. What about the circus?"

"What about the circus?" He laughed good-naturedly. "Vhen it packs up, so vill I. I've only committed to a season, and my time's nearly up. I'll be on the move in the opposite direction. But don't feel bad for me, _Fraulein_. This is not an entirely friendless world. Even for those of us without names." He winked.

Rogue hunched over and turned away, but he called her back: "You walk like a person who's hiding from something." He wagged one of his fingers in her face. "You continue that way, you might attract unvanted attention. Like me."

She laughed because she couldn't help it. "But yah're a mutant." She tried not to make it sound so awful. Yet he never stopped grinning.

"So you _do_ know vhat I really am!" He slapped his knee and danced around her as if this were a truly winning idea. "And vhat of it? I AM A MUTANT!" He yelled it, much to her horror. A moment passed and nothing else happened. He shrugged, smiling at her in such a happy way.

Rogue took this as an opportunity to bow out. "Ah have tah go."

"Of course you do." She walked briskly past him, hoping he wouldn't follow. He called after her, "Come back soon! Don't be a stranger now!"

Rogue heard the echo of Remy's voice in her head. _We can make our powers work for us._

"You should come again," he called after her, the distance causing him to sound far-off. "Bring your friend!" he added happily as Rogue rounded the corner and made herself scarce.

* * *

_I had my dream_  
_I held your hand_  
_On that broad avenue_  
_We crossed the road_  
_And never spoke_  
_To another as we flew._

"So much for your secret." Remy glanced up, drawing a blank. For a quick second, he wondered if Rogue had finally found out what a scoundrel he truly was. And then when she walked into the room smiling, he was assured quite the opposite.

"Petey mentioned it, but Ah suppose yah are a good cook."

Remy laughed, feeling more relieved than anything else. "_Mais_, it's my own Cajun stew. Not so much Cajun, tho'." He grinned at her from over the stove. "What'd y' bring f' me today?" he wanted to know, giving the pot another stir.

"The same fare. Nothin' fancy. Dry goods, flour. What yah asked." They had an unspoken arrangement: as long as she took the walk to town, he would help around the house. Rogue slipped the chicory coffee unto the table with a formidable _thunk_. Remy glanced over and immediately smirked.

"Remembered it dis time, eh? Must've cost a fortune."

"Took a conversation. He was an interesting fella."

"A _homme_?" Remy's right eyebrow shot up in defiance. "Y' been sneakin' t' town t' meet a _homme_?"

Rogue gave a short laugh. "Not quite. He's from the circus. A mutant, lahke us."

Remy turned away from her. "_Non_, Rogue. Not like us." He said this quietly, as though they were the only mutants in the world.

"Well, they call him the 'Mysterious Nightcrawler.' But he speaks perfect English and has a tail."

"A tail? I didn' know y' liked dem w' tails, _beb_," Remy joked, earning him a playful punch in the arm.

"It ain't lahke that, Swamp Rat. But Ah got tah thinkin'." She had stopped over the stove, long enough to taste-test his latest stew. "The circus is still in town. Ah could get us tickets. We can go see it for ourselves. See a live performance while it's here."

Remy raised an eyebrow. "Circus? At dis time o' year?"

"Well, they seem to be finishing up their run. Figured we could catch a show before they pack up for good."

But Remy was shaking his head. "It don't do well to be around in public with my eyes, beb. 'Sides, we can't be going out like thet. Not when dere's people out dere, lookin' f' y'. Lookin' f' me." He didn't specify. He always tried to make it very general, ominous.

She did not look at him, but he could tell she was disappointed. "I didn't think this town was all that bad, Rems." She set the table and flitted about, keeping busy. Remy stepped away from the stove and caught her in his arms. She allowed him to pull her to him, pausing only to fit her head against his shoulder.

"We can't stay here," Remy reminded her gently. "We don't belong here, beb." Perhaps, in a way, he was also reminding himself.

"But what if we don't go. What if we juss stay? Juss this once." Her head remained on his shoulder. Remy closed his eyes, caught up in a whirl of auburn and white. She said such things because she didn't know. She didn't know the kind of danger he put her in. For all he knew, they had stayed too long already.

"A mutant is only as good as his or her powers are. De more dangerous, only means de more powerful y' are. We can make our powers work f' us. But thet's what ordinary folk don't understand. Dey can't. Dey don't know what it is, and thet's what makes dem fear us." He pulled away, trying his best not to cringe. _I'll be damned, I sound just like the Old Boss._

Why was he telling her these things anyway? He wasn't trying to get her on Magneto's side…or was he? What did he want to accomplish, keeping her for a coon's age, stringing her along, knowing that why she stayed and what he meant to her were developing into something too complex to let her down gently?

But what if she was right? What if they just stayed, would it be so horrible? If only there was no Magneto. No mutant philosophy to uphold. No Xavier at the other end. Just him and Rogue. What an alluring possibility that he could never gain, and it was all his doing.

"Look, it ain't safe here w' me…"

She glanced at him quickly. "Ah ain't leavin' yah."

"Rogue…"

"Stop it! Juss stop." She broke off, her lower lip quivering. Her gloved hands reached for him and held his face inches from hers. "Man alive. How'd we go from talkin' 'bout the circus tah me leavin' anyway?" She smiled, her good-natured quip allowing him to release the tension building up inside him. She couldn't know that sharing a house, a bed, their meals was so painstakingly ordinary, something he suddenly wanted with her. Only her. He squeezed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, a gesture she took for frustration. "Is it because Ah cain't touch?" she asked haltingly. The very thought of it made him choke.

"What? _Non_—!"

Because Ah'm willing tah try controllin' mah powers. Ah wanna try, for yah. For us." This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was giving him everything she had, showing her hand with all bets off, but Remy couldn't accept it. He was so violently aware that this was all going to end wrong.

"Ah just need time," she pleaded with him, misinterpreting his silence for hesitation. "It's juss all gone bad before. An' yah know what Ah am. What Ah've done." Sure he did, but it sure as hell didn't come close to what he was doing to her now. "An' Ah know yah," she told him softly.

His eyes flashed. He shook his head slowly, no. "Don't." It was almost laughable. He wanted to take her shoulders and shake her and kiss her hard and tell her he didn't deserve her. But he was selfish and cowardly; a lost cause who couldn't take the chance. He didn't want to lose her. Remy stepped back and took her gloved hands, pressed them longingly to his mouth, breathed in their leather. "I want dis." And then he dropped her hands and took a step away from her. "But I cain't." He shook his head when she started to protest. "I juss cain't."

**. . .**

She did not ask him to go to bed that night. He stayed awake, chain-smoking until the last cigarette burned between his lips, the cold night air sneaking into the kitchen where he sat, composing a letter to Jubilation, before crumpling it and throwing it across the room.

He had not been entirely honest to Rogue. He might do the honorable thing and put it right, but Remy was not accustomed to telling the truth.

However, she did have a point. They could just stay here, just this once. Maybe Magneto would not come knocking, or the Assassins show up stealing into the bedroom window. But Remy was not so naïve to believe so.

He walked through the empty house, making his way upstairs. It was early morning now. It was an effort to find his footing, his hand riding the railing.

She had left the candlelight on for him, in case he aimed to join her. Fully clothed, he climbed in beside her atop the covers. She did not say a word, but curled into his side, finding the place for her head on his shoulder. It was as if they were back at McCoy's, holding hands, the first time she did not rip away from his touch. She was different now—after all, he had not expected much from the miracle. And yet here he was, finally seeing her for what she was to him.

And in that moment, watching her sleep, the lamplight glinting softly in the darkened room, Remy knew he loved her.

_I laid you down and touched you_  
_Like the two of us both needed_  
_Safe to say that others might not_  
_Approve of this and pleaded_  
_"So selfish them" would be their cry_  
_And who'd be brave to argue?_  
_Doin' what you people need_  
_Is never on the menu (1)_

* * *

Rogue went for a walk a few days later. She did not know where she was heading, or why she did not tell Remy where she went. But she was convinced that fresh, cold air could set her mind straight.

She thought about her own mutant powers. The ability to take what was not hers. Memories, skills, thoughts, feelings that meant nothing. Except now she knew of someone with something useful.

And as if on cue, Kurt Wagner appeared against the morning sun, turned towards her footfalls, grinning with his incisors. "So she returns!" he welcomed, raising his arms before folding them across his chest. "So good of you to join me this morning."

Rogue stopped a short distance from where the mutant stood. "The circus still in town?"

"Of course! One more performance, just for you, _Fraulein_!" But his face turned sober and he said, "Unless, of course, you are still hiding. Your friend, after all, does exist? Or is that a story not worth sharing?"

Rogue put her hair behind her ears and smiled back at the Nightcrawler. "Yah want a story?" She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Ah'm a mutant too." And just as his eyes widened with surprise, before he could utter a word, she had torn off her right glove, her hand finding his bare one. Connected. He was stunned, she knew, and she almost recoiled from the torrent of his being sweeping into her like a undulating wave. Her arm shifted away. A simple touch was all it took. Nightcrawler swayed back on his haunches, his eyes rolling back into his head. For a split second, it almost seemed as though he were fighting it. And then he dropped down hard like a petrified log, crumpled at her feet. It took her a minute to realize what she had done, that strange mutant lying lifeless on the ground. Slowly, still dizzy from this latest assault on her mind, she forced herself to walk. Get away. But it was a long time before she could make it at least a few yards from his body.

A good distance away from the scene of the crime, Rogue had not lost her stomach after all. The feeling of whirling in circles finally subsided, replaced instead with a nervousness and excitement to do the unthinkable. She could not tell you why she had done it, only that she had wanted to. Rogue closed her eyes and concentrated hard. He had profound power, this one. In his last moments he was thinking, _I like her. She has green eyes. _Right before she sucked it all out with a swipe of her hand. Rogue pushed away these useless pieces of his mind and focused strictly on the bits that could do something for her. She settled her sights on a tree in front of her, that bottom branch. It looked hefty enough to bear her weight, not unlike that Caldecott sycamore upon which she was hung. _Bampf_! She immediately appeared, standing atop the branch, springing underneath the sudden burden of her weight. She'd actually done it. Someone else's powers, hers for the taking. And even though she could not control her own, she had taken another's from someone who certainly did. It had been so easy.

Somewhere in the back of her head, Rogue knew this must be wrong. She was cheating. But maybe this was her own power, to take and use what did not belong to her. She could be very dangerous indeed.

She could not wait to tell Remy what she had done.

**. . .**

Remy LeBeau had been waiting for more than an hour, having received Creed's telegraph that same morning. He had written to Sabretooth. There was a saloon on the outskirts of town. They could meet there. Creed noted the location. He said he would be there.

Remy had not told Rogue where he had gone, but assured himself that he would not be away long. So he ordered himself some whiskey, and sipped until it was near finished, but still Creed had not shown up.

Remy started to wonder. He came prepared to tell him he wanted out. He couldn't do it anymore. If Magneto wanted to kill him, that would be just fine. He just couldn't take being next to her, languishing in this life of a lie. He would do her right this time; he would do it for the both of them.

Dusk was starting to creep in when Remy began to sweat. He never worried, but just as he finally decided to take control of the situation, he found the whole thing in a downward spiral. Creed. Where was he?

And then it hit him: that terrible, rising fear threatening to tear him apart. Creed never wanted to meet him in the first place. Like a fool, he had left Rogue alone back at Paul's. He had been so wound up preparing himself to leave her that his plans fell apart before they could materialize.

Remy shot out of that saloon, stealing away some tied-up horse, maddened in his rush to return to her. And he took off, praying he wouldn't return to an empty room.

**. . . **

It was nearly dark when Rogue walked up the path to Paul's, happily noting the firelight in the bedroom window. She had bought a fresh round of dodgers, zipping in and out with her newfound control of someone else's powers, and enjoying the ease in which she could slip down the walk without really being noticed. At the doorway, she looked around, making sure she was alone. And then she concentrated, really hard now, before _bampf_! And she was suddenly doused in putrid smoke, reappearing in front of the door to their room.

Giddy, excited to tell Remy what she had accomplished—wait 'til you see _this_, Swamp Rat!—Rogue fumbled with the knob, almost knocking the door over in a mad rush to let herself in. The lamp by the window glowed expectantly, shedding weak light into the rest of the room. Rogue got a sudden whiff of something floral and strong, something that struck her as oddly familiar.

She hurriedly got out of her coat, rearranging her hair as she stood in front of the looking glass to check her reflection. And that was when she saw someone sitting at the edge of the bed in the mirror, staring bemusedly back at her. For a sharp, painful second, Rogue couldn't breathe. Her first instinct was to look back at the door, but she couldn't concentrate on disappearing out of the room. Her muscles froze, her mind yelling at her to do _something_. But all she could do was stare into the mirror, frightened to pieces for when she would have to turn around.

"_Mais_, it's been such a long time, _catin_." Belladonna's eyes slid to the left, alluring, deadly. "But it's so good t' know y' haven't changed a bit."

* * *

Endnotes:

(1) Blunderbuss-Jack White.

I love me a Nightcrawler. Two months and suddenly an update; this must be a new record for me. I can't promise this to be a trend, but it sure is refreshing to keep the ball rolling. Care to review? I'd love to hear what you think ;)

Remy's cover is blown. Up Next: the aftermath.


	23. Twenty-Three

_Ariesque Presents:_

**Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin**

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for violence, language, and other suggestive parts; I will warn beforehand

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: This is not really a chapter, per se. It's more of a little, much-needed passage between chapters. Thank you for your reviews, your favorites, your follows. I love you all. Enjoy.

* * *

**Christmas Day, 1877**

The snow had begun to fall. The streets were lined with wreaths and draped in holly, a sure sign that the holidays had finally arrived. There would be a great deal of festivities, the number of lights rivaling that of the stars; the season and its message of hope giving the people cause to celebrate but leaving Remy reeling in its expectancy, its delighted happiness, when all he could see was another harsh winter ahead of him.

Few carolers had gathered in the street, sharing good tidings of great joy in song. Remy LeBeau watched from afar, taking a pull of his cigarette and allowing it burn between his fingers. Another time, he might have joined in; he knew the lyrics by heart, of course. But he turned the corner instead and could hardly keep from shaking. The cold, he blamed it immediately; struggling, then frustrated, he yanked his trench coat tighter about him. The devil, he regretted to say, had returned to the city once more.

Christmas day found him in the local saloon, playing his hand and losing nearly everything before he turned down his cards and bought himself a fourth glass of whiskey. Of course he blamed the drink, or maybe he didn't really care to win anyway.

The girl was pretty, perhaps. She sat down in his lap before he had a chance to ask. No, she was very pretty, he decided with a nod at his whiskey. But she was more than that. Certainly, _she_ could touch.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. LeBeau," she offered cordially, one arm draped over his shoulder, the other tugging at the lapel of his trench coat. It had been such a long time, having someone so near once more. He reached out and put her hair behind her ear, knowing full well that wisp of white was not there.

"Merry Christmas t' y' too," he muttered under his breath. And then he suddenly got to his feet, causing the girl to fall over in surprise. She cursed him, calling him names, but he paid her no mind and replaced his Stetson on his head. She wasn't what he came here for, anyway. Pulling the trench coat tighter in anticipation of the cold December air, he made his way out the back door. He would not risk getting thrown out if he could simply walk away unscathed.

Outside, the snow continued to fall in a winter gloom. But Remy was not yet finished. He wandered around the corral behind the saloon, keeping a careful eye for those who might holler "thief!" and at the same time deliberated, half-drunk, which horse best suited him tonight. She wouldn't like seeing him like this: up to his old antics, stealing horses and giving the police a run for their money. But she had liked him that way, too. It was at that moment the wretched spinning in his head began, and Remy wrenched his eyes shut, if only to stunt the growing pain pulsing in his temple. He must stop thinking of her. He must move on.

When he settled on the chestnut mare eyeing him cautiously, she did not whine when he led her away. Surely she did not mind his company for the evening, but Remy could only presume such things.

He made out like a thief in the night. The snow fell faster the longer the night stretched.

_You see her when you close your eyes,_

_Maybe one day you'll understand why_

_everything you touch only dies. _(1)

He had not returned to Paul's since the night she left, but he had not completely left it either. That Christmas night he kept watch, taking the horse around the house, peering into its emptiness through its dirty windowsills. She had not returned, but she had not completely left it either. The coat she bought in town hung limp near the fireplace, the chicory coffee sat alone on the kitchen table waiting to be used. His hand went to his pocket searching for a cigarette, but came up with her pair of gloves instead. Remy sat staring at them like a dumbfounded fool. What would she think of him now, perched atop a stolen horse, waiting for something—anything to happen? She had made sure he would always feel her absence.

He did not expect her to return— and why should she? But how did she manage, and where was she now? No coat, no means of getting around, not a penny to her name. God knows he had searched, how he tried to find her in the dead of night and the entire day after. But unlike Kitty, she would not be found on the front porch, wanting to apologize for leaving. No, the Rogue had done gathered her senses and left for good. And he knew that there was no use in staying, there was nothing left for him here, but he couldn't find it in him to leave just yet. Maybe he wanted to end the chase, barricaded and useless like John Wilkes Booth before he was shot up in a last stand with the police; maybe he felt Magneto could tear him to pieces before the year was up. But mostly, he saw now—much too late—how he was with Rogue. He had had a purpose, and though it was a daft, utterly unfair and cowardly purpose, he had meant something to her. But she since had gone and took that with her, and he couldn't blame her for it.

Or maybe it was because he had seen how much she loved him, even when she was faced with the truth and could not yet accept it; how desperately she had wanted to believe him. And how, even now, he could not return any of it.

Remy inhaled sharply, blinking back tears as his hands grasped her gloves tighter. He'd take it all back if he could, if only he could. _Merry Christmas, Rogue._ He should not have felt ashamed of being seen, for he had never felt so lonely in his life. _Wherever you are._

_You only need the light when it's burning low,_

_Only miss the sun when it starts to snow,_

_Only know your lover when you let her go,_

_Only know you've been high when you're feeling low,_

_Only hate the road when you're missing home,_

_Only know your lover when you let her go._

_And you let her go. _(1)

* * *

Rogue was furious, watching Belladonna stroke the bed sheets which she and Remy shared, feeling violated by the murderer's latest intrusion. But Belladonna chose not to mind; she lifted her gaze briefly, a sly shift of her knowing eyes in Rogue's general direction.

"Before y' jump t' conclusions, as I know y' surely have," she pointed out, reaching behind her, "I want y' t' know I am willing to let y' live—"

Rogue scoffed at that. "Yah mean lahke the last time we met?"

"Thet—I don't want t' talk about thet," the assassin snapped, looking genuinely offended. "But since y' mentioned it, if I wanted y' dead, y'd already be gone a coon's age ago."

Rogue set her teeth. "Why have yah come, then?" she demanded as evenly as she could manage.

Belladonna shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Many reasons, 'course. But all t'ings will come in due time, I suppose. Dis, I think, is long overdue." Rogue watched as Belladonna revealed a pile of papers hastily compiled, the first page being that of Rogue's Wanted poster.

"What is this?" Rogue rasped breathlessly, staring at her picture and then glaring at the assassin before her.

Belladonna was unruffled by her tone. "What should have been given t' y' from de very beginning."

"Ah don't understand." Rogue did not pick up the papers, something that seemed to irk Belladonna to no end.

"Well, go on. Have a look at his telling of y'."

Rogue was caught off-guard. "His?"

Belladonna rolled her eyes impatiently. "Don't tell me he's never admitted the reason he's gone along with someone like you." When Rogue did not answer, Belladonna spat, "But of course he wouldn't. Not when it risked losin' everythin' he's worked so hard t' create."

Rogue swallowed hard. The assassin seemed satisfied knowing she had hit a chord.

"Ah don't believe yah! How can yah accuse Remy of such?"

"Really, because y' think he's not capable of doin' such a t'ing?" Belladonna shook her head, looking pained with her reaction. "Y' cain't truly believe he's helped y' simply because he _wanted_ t' help. Not when being with y' meant a steady paycheck as long as he kept y' along. It was only a job t' him. He _had_ to help, y' see."

_He was being paid to stay with her?_ Rogue's head reeled with such a ridiculous accusation. But she reminded herself whom this was all coming from and forced herself to face the assassin who seemed so confident in what she had revealed.

"He never loved you," Rogue began to reason out, "Yah're angry with him—"

But her visitor only scoffed. "Oh, and he loves y', is dat it? Is dat what I'm supposed t' believe?"

Rogue said, "It don't matter what yah believe. _Ah_ believe it."

Belladonna just laughed. "Oh, thet's rich, it is! Remy loves a _femme_ who cain't touch, who hasn't got anythin' he really wants. But please, don't take m' word f' it. Y' know how t' get de truth, don't y'? Isn't thet de point of y' powers anyway?"

Rogue could hardly contain her fury. "How _dare_ yah assume yah know how mah powers work!"

Belladonna sighed, as though saddened by her reaction. "_Catin_, I don't assume." She nodded towards the papers sitting between them. "It's all there. I learned it from him." The woman suddenly stood, straightening her purple cloak about her shoulders. "_Mais_. I believe I've overstayed my welcome."

"Ah hardly think yah being here a courtesy," Rogue shot back.

Belladonna ignored that, pulling on her gloves as she walked to the door. "I'll show myself out." And she turned to Rogue, her blue eyes gazing at her with steady intent. "Y' should know I've only come tonight so that y' might see him for what he really is. He cannot be this selfish, t' let y' on this long. Take it from someone who knows him. Remy LeBeau cannot be trusted." She paused for a moment as her hand went to the gun at her hip. "They say you shouldn't carry it unless you're willing to shoot. With Remy LeBeau alive, I'll never go without it."

**. . . **

And Rogue thought, _how dare she_. Watching Belladonna walk out that door like she owned the place. _Telling me how to think, how to feel, when I know what he means to me._ But that didn't mean a damn thing, now did it? Because she sure didn't know what she meant to Remy.

The front door clicked shut. It was a long time before Rogue felt it safe to move. That pile of papers Belladonna left at the foot of the bed, standing out like a sore thumb in the middle of the room. Rogue could see her wanted poster staring back at her like some malicious jest set to destroy her.

_What am I doing?_ Surely she would not take advice from someone who had tried to kill her. But it was like a pull of curiosity mingled with entitled honesty that kept her reading, page after page, the horror of her tragedy replayed in every word written, every picture placed. The dreaded memories all came back, rushing like angry waves anxious to lose her at sea: Cody, Logan, the officer with a family, the assassins. Everything she had said in confidence to Remy was recorded, reported: her friendship with Logan the "Legend," the inability to touch without first doing harm, McCoy's account of her miraculous recovery from a fatal gunshot wound. He traded her secrets for gold. And through it all, he referred to her simply as a mutant. Remy wrote her so powerful that no man was match for her touch of death, which was not a hard thing to sell, considering her history.

Rogue suddenly felt her head so heavy with conflicted conviction, struggling to comprehend the horrible truth that all this time she had been made to believe herself safe in his company. The thought of Nightcrawler twisted her insides into knots, so very aware that he was her latest victim. Remy had influenced her, that was certain. He only wanted to learn more of her ability. But no—she must not give up on him so easily. _What if she could touch?_ What did he mean by that, if he was not curious of even the smallest possibility that they could be together? Surely he could explain; there must be something else that kept him on. There had to be. She couldn't be just a mutant to him, as he had documented in this report. In the very least, he owed her the truth. And she knew how to get it.

Her green dress was given as a sort of parting gift from Kitty Pryde. How far away it all seemed, Kentucky and Piotr and how Remy had annoyed her to no end. When did it all change? Rogue could not remember. She had nothing else—material or otherwise—which she regarded as her own. Quietly, she took off her gloves and her dress and rent the sleeves and neckline until there was but a bodice and a skirt. Hurriedly, she pulled on what was left of the gown, leaving the gloves lying beside her on the bed. Had he meant to protect her or protect himself with those gloves? She would stay, she decided, if only to hear it from the only one who mattered.

Rogue sat shivering in her torn dress as time slipped away and the light waned, until she heard Remy call for her before he tore through the front door and it banged against the wall, the sound reverberating through the empty house and in the very marrow of her bones.

"_Rogue_!" His cry knocked her to her senses and her heart throbbed in response.

Belladonna could not do without her gun, but Rogue knew she could do far worse without one. She was ready for him.

* * *

Remy was breathless, careening up the stairs, adrenaline pushing him forward, bent only on finding her. "Rogue!" His voice burst from deep inside him, senseless almost, as he found his footing and paused at the top the staircase. A slight sliver of fear traced itself into his heart; suddenly, he was not quite ready to face the possibility that she might have been taken from him already.

The boards creaked and he turned to see her, the lamplight guiding her path through the darkened hallway.

"Rogue," he said again, the relief swelling his throat at the sight of her standing in the shadows. She was here; she was still here. He reminded himself to breathe.

Remy took a step in her direction, wanting—needing to take her in his arms. They should leave at once, of course; he could not risk losing her again. But he noticed her hesitation when she never before thought twice to go to him. Then he saw it: Rogue's dress in tatters, her skin bared and glowing against the faint flame she carried. Something was not right. Never before had she been so exposed, never on purpose.

"What's happened?" He finally asked her, the words slow in coming as he watched her from a cautious distance. She was carrying something in her arms. A pile of papers. Remy recognized her Wanted poster staring up at him from between her hands. _How did she come by it?_ His fear returned, warping rapidly into dread. He should have known better, the moment he recognized that damning piece of evidence he himself had compiled. But by then it was too late: he knew she was already lost.

Rogue said very calmly, "Logan's alive." Remy felt his heart skip a beat as her eyes met his. "But yah knew that. Even when Ah didn't, yah knew."

He risked a step forward, feeling her slip away the closer he came. "I was gonna t' tell y'…I wanted t' tell y' everythin'…"

"Tell me?" Mistrust clouded the brightness of her eyes. Vaguely, he realized she finally saw him for what he truly was and knew nothing would be the same between them. "It's true, then."

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. But for the life of him, Remy didn't know how to make it right again.

She had seen the papers. She had read every single line, every page branding her a mutant and him a coward, further proving him a scoundrel. But he saw that she held them hard against her, if only to salvage what was rapidly collapsing between them.

She shook her head, struggling not to cry. "What am Ah tah yah?" She gasped, her voice quivering.

Remy LeBeau, a man who built a life always ready for what may come, hadn't expected this. He saw in her face how much his response would matter. _Was_ she just a mutie he wanted to catch? Bribe her with friendship for a trip up North while pretending he was the kind of person to care? Nothing could hurt her more than his own doing.

But Rogue did not wait for an answer. Anything spoken might as well be another lie. She set down her lamp and approached him, letting her arms fall to her sides. The pages fluttered in a heavy, chaotic cascade to the floor as she stepped into the space between them. And the details would haunt him, his mind torn between every attempt to remember, to forget: her skin so white against the dark green of her dress, the curve of her neck and line of her jaw and the sound of her boots clacking on the wooden floor in a steady, even tempo_._ Her eyes were glazed, hair pulled back except for that curious slant of bleached hair dangling limp across her face. It frightened him, how real she became—as if there were only the two of them who existed in the world at that moment.

And then he saw her hands—those gentle, capable hands that he had held so confidently wrapped in their leather—saw them reach out to him. She wanted to take his face in her hands. Her bare hands. _What if you could touch?_ And for a long moment, he wanted her to do it.

Her eyes were pleading with him:_ I want to believe you. Make me believe you. _

What he would give if only he could.

But what she would absorb, and how could he bear it, knowing she would see it all: his betrayal and scheming, their whole relationship built on a lie. In that moment, she was asking for the moon. And he just couldn't do it.

The next minute, Remy backed away from her reach, trying to avoid her gaze. There was no use in pretending; they were as sure as strangers since the day they first met.

"Rogue," he whispered warily, and he abruptly realized something truly stunning and saddening all at once: he had never even learned her real name. Remy tried searching back into the farthest reaches of his mind, but his heart was racing because he knew he was doing more harm than good, and suddenly she was gone, fleeing down the stairs past him, her ruined dress flying out behind her.

Racing after her, cursing himself for not wearing gloves, Remy was running and shedding his coat, and just as she cleared the front door, he threw it over her, wrapping her in it as she struggled desperately against his hold. "Rogue, _please_…!" But her resolve was stronger and he could barely keep her strapped in his trench coat for long.

"No!" She cried out, and it tore him apart, how much she wanted to leave him. "They all were right about yah—every single one of them, and Ah believed _yah_—! Ah never meant anythin' tah yah. Nothin' but a damn _mutant_!" She threw that last word like a slap across his face. Remy recoiled and loosened his grip; he did the wrong thing and she was able to push away, breaking free of his hold, and then _bampf_! She was gone before he knew what had happened, replaced by foul smoke and an empty trench coat and little else to tell him where she went.

* * *

_You've made your decision_

_Now get up and leave._

_A familiar sting of the woodcutter's swing to the tree._

_I'll fall in the forest to elbows and knees_

_And it won't make a sound_

_Since there's no one around here to see. (2)_

Rogue gasped. The cold night air tore into her lungs, the painful heave temporarily lifting her from the fog of what had just occurred. She did not know how she had done it, or that she even remembered she could use that Nightcrawler's powers until she was standing in the snow, looking out across the sleeping, silent town. Rogue could not go back. She could almost hear Remy calling for her, frantic and oblivious to her proximity as she stood shivering in her thin, tattered skirt unable to go or stay or move at all.

Rogue reached deeper into those memories that did not belong to her and quickly reappeared in someone else's bed. The acrid smoke lingered and she coughed into her hands until she could breathe normally again. She lit upon a blanket and wrapped it around her bare arms, shivering as the tears slid down her face. She couldn't quit crying. The sobbing surprised her, how hard she wept in her fury, her remorse, that cruel last look of him as he begged her to stay with him carved in her memory like a deep cut meant to scar. She cried because she hated him, because she wanted him to hurt as much as she did, but mostly because she loved him; even now, she just loved him so much.

* * *

It didn't take long for Remy to realize he was no longer alone, paying vigil to an empty house or a girl he no longer knew. The cold wind whistled in his ears, the snow falling steady and fast. Remy got down from the horse and put away Rogue's gloves. If the damned assassins had finally come to do him in, he might as well give them a good fight. He charged a card and allowed it to glow brightly between his fingers as he stared hard into the bitter, endless darkness.

And then, it pounced. Remy saw the shadow of a man and knew he was found. He threw the card blindly, knocking down a nearby tree, hoping at least for a distraction as he scrambled away. His hand came up with another card, but by then Remy had reached the back porch of Paul's. He had hoped to face his attacker with the safety of the house behind him, but that was futile as Remy threw the card and the force of the explosion sent him backwards through the door. His shoulder hit the wooden boards hard and the pain kept him down—he could not will his body to get away.

And then he heard it: _Sinkt_! The sound alarmed Remy all to pieces. It was like knives tearing through flesh, reared just for him. Some expletive tore out of his mouth; Remy rolled away just as the fist came down hard and fast. His body suddenly burst from the ground in a blustery panic, trying to escape with his life through the dark, unfamiliar house. The snarling, the roar of anger rising behind him. Logan. It had to be the Legend, tearing up the stairs, burning through the doors like a force to be reckoned. Remy felt the grab before the pull; the fingers lifting him effortlessly off the ground. He dangled, all his weight suddenly dependent on Logan's hold, the horror becoming all too real as Remy was flipped around and forced to face his fate.

Logan bent his face forward, his scowl obscuring his features. Remy barely made out the battered cowboy hat sliding menacingly over his eyes, half-wondering if this would be the last thing he would ever witness alive.

"Now," the Legend sneered, the glint in his eyes as cold as the claws in his hands, "you answer to me."

* * *

(1) Passenger. _Let Her Go._

(2) Dry the River. _Weights and Measures._

_I was prepared to love you, and never expect anything of you_. I give these two songs full credit for helping me write this piece. To be honest, I had thought it would be easy to write this part because I've envisioned it for awhile now. Only when I finally got to it did it suddenly become so difficult, seeing as there was so much to get across. So I hoped it sufficed. And Logan's back! I can only tell you how excited I am to write him in again...

Up Next: How they get on without each other.


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